A Doctor's Tale: The Hidden War
by James Fulbright
Summary: Set in 1987, this story follows the life of Irving Platt, a 38-year-old Red Cross doctor who has seen many conflicts worldwide. However, he soon finds himself caught in another war, one fought in ways far unlike the muggle world. The story takes place in the HP universe but with an entirely new set of characters and storyline not found in the books.
1. Prologue: The Old Doctor

**DISCLAIMER: I do not own any characters created by J. K. Rowling, nor the Harry Potter universe. I am merely exercising my right to fair use as outlined in the Copyright Act of 1976, Section 107 with the primary purpose not to profit, but to serve as a critique to the political and philosophical systems of the world up to the late 20th century.**

 **Update 1 (May 2019): fixed errors in punctuation and grammar.**

1:53 PM. Just a typical cloudy day in London, you thought to yourself. You look at your watch, check the contents of your bag, and leapt off the bus. The news agency you work in has given you a rather different kind of task yesterday. Instead of another day at the office editing papers, you were told to find the residence of an old doctor named Irving Platt, who lives in the south side of London. You begin to wonder what he looks like as you begin walking to his house.

After a few minutes of walking, you arrive at a small white house which looks very old, but at the same time emanates a sense of comfort reminding you of your birthplace. It could be the stained-glass windows, it could be the flowers in the small garden, or it could be the grey cat cosily sleeping on the pavement, paying no attention to you whatsoever as you approach the front door. You were told that years ago, there was a clinic here, but it was closed down since the doctor retired. As you approach to ring the doorbell, an old man opens the door and stares at you as if he's been expecting you for a while.

"Hello kid, you're late," said the old man.

You look at your digital watch and say, "I'm only a few minutes late, sir."

"Yes, yes. Eight minutes late. More than enough time for someone to suffer from permanent brain damage due to deprivation of oxygen! If all doctors had that same attitude, imagine how many patients would have been lost!"

You were stunned by his response, and began to wonder why the agency sent you to deal with this old man. The agency could've sent someone more experienced instead of a new worker like you, an immigrant who has just settled for barely a year in London.

"My apologies, sir."

"No need for your apologies. I've never seen you before, so I can assume that it was a rookie mistake and I can tolerate that. However, if you ever need to cross the Thames next time, I suggest that you take the bus heading for Wimbledon instead of the one that goes through Vauxhall Cross. The road is longer, but it's faster to get to my house from there, considering the amount of traffic Vauxhall gets every day. I think it was Route 93. Now, have you been told the reason of your arrival here?"

"I was sent to retrieve something, and that's all."

"Well, Jameson never really does reveal too much to his employees. He thinks that an employee who knows too much will often get distracted from work."

"Who is Jameson, sir?"

The old man went inside for several minutes and came out with a photo and a pencil. He began making sketches on the face, and then he revealed the results.

"If Nathaniel Jameson has aged correctly, he would look something like this. Does it look familiar to you?"

"Yes. That's my boss."

The old man then erased the pencil markings: the beard, the hair, and the wrinkles, revealing a bald but much younger man. He then said, "And this is your boss after he was discharged from hospital in 1991. A tough boy he was, he survived lung cancer."

"Really?"

"Yes, but he probably didn't tell you about it. He was one of my toughest patients, mainly because he was 15 years old at the time and for some strange reason most conventional methods of curing cancer don't really work on him. We treated him for 8 months, using a new drug called Paraplatin which was more effective in halting the spread, but... wait. I'm getting carried away again. Let's just say I needed to have a debate with all the other doctors on whether or not to use that new drug on such a young boy.

"I see..."

"Now come inside, kid. All the pollution in the air is bad for your health."

As you come inside, you find yourself in what appears to be a waiting room for patients. The air was much cleaner inside thanks to the air purifier at the corner of the room. The air purifier, however, is the only modern item in the said room aside from your cellphone. Everything else inside looks as if they were made in the 1990s, with several items such as the desk lamp atop the end table looking much older than that. The light on the ceiling itself was a round-shaped white fluorescent lamp similar to the ones found in the older rooms of the office, and the paint was visibly peeling off the walls. The lamp still made a slight buzzing noise when turned on.

"I apologize for the less-than-lively state of my clinic, now an empty and quiet home, a shadow of what it once was. You know, back then I could expect 10-20 patients a day. But those days are long gone."

The doctor stares at a corner of the room, at a large framed picture of his family taken over 30 years ago. Inside the picture, you can see his wife and 2 young boys with toothless smiles. Below the picture is a framed GMC certificate and a bachelor's degree from the University of Nagoya in Japan, both of which look older than the family photograph.

"Long gone by dozens of years by now."

The old doctor went back inside his room, singing "When I'm 64" by The Beatles. You can hear his voice slowly fade away. Then, about 20 minutes later, he returned with a flash drive and a letter sealed with red wax.

"The letter is for your boss, the flash drive is for you. Go open it once you reach your office. However, regarding this letter, promise me that you see this letter opened by your chief with your own two eyes, and report back to me once he has done so. You can find my phone number in the flash drive. Don't use instant messaging or any form of social media. Just call me on the phone the old-fashioned way. And, last and most importantly, don't give this letter to any other intermediary person, not even the secretary if he has employed one. Now you best get going, before you get a salary cut due to your absence."

3:11 PM. You immediately took the lift to the upper floors and gave the letter to your boss, bypassing everyone you meet. He breaks the wax seal, opens it and began reading, his face looking increasingly troubled and concerned as his eyes pass each sentence, at one point rubbing his head in thought. Halfway through the letter, he orders you back to your workstation. You begin to wonder what is going on.

En route, you remembered to call the doctor. You return to your cubicle and attach the flash drive, and instead found a folder named "1987" and a notepad text document containing the doctor's phone number. You dialled the number and informed the doctor about the letter. To your surprise, the voice was completely unlike the doctor, but that of another man, with a lighter pitch and a French accent.

"Good, good. I understand now. I know what you're thinking, but don't worry. I know about Platt too. Now, I assume he has also given you several files, am I correct? You should go open them. Don't worry about that old man. He is far more capable than what meets the eye."

You are confused as to what you should do. You begin to think about calling the police, but you are uncertain whether or not to take that course of action so quickly.

"And don't even think about calling the police. If you do, you too will be in danger. We have many enemies there, but I am a friend. You will know who I am if you read the files the doctor gave you."

Faintly, you can hear another voice, seemingly Dutch or German. You try to ask for the identity of the caller again, but all you get is this reply:

"That is irrelevant as of now. I told you that the answers are within the files. They may seem fantastic and unbelievable, but they are true. Remember that as you read."

Before you can reply, the mysterious caller adds: "I now have other affairs to attend to. Affairs which you will not know now, but you will know after you read the files. Black Swan over and out!" before ending the call.

You begin to suspect the doctor's ties to organised crime, or some form of terrorist group. However, you decide to discard all your suspicions and opened the folder. Inside the folder were several PDF files containing what appears to be handwritten pages of the doctor's journal, scanned with a scanner. The writing was messy and rather incomprehensible, like what many would expect from a doctor. You open the uppermost file, titled "000: 4 March 1987".

And so you begin reading…

...

4 March 1987, 06:45

It's going to be a special day for me. I'm expecting my 3000th visit this morning. I've come a long way since my first patient, a little girl named Emily. At that time I was only 27 years old and single. Now, Jeff is about to celebrate his 9th birthday. He's been begging me to buy a Commodore 64 microcomputer after seeing an advertisement on TV, but frankly, do we really need something like that in our house? And, if we really do need one, I see no particular difference between a Commodore 64 and a 48K Spectrum. And as for the Nintendo Entertainment System which is his alternative choice, I'm inclined not to fulfil that. Considering how Atari went bankrupt in 1984, I don't see the need to purchase a "family computer" with the sole purpose for playing games but incapable of everything else. We have arcades for that.

It is interesting how Nintendo started out as a card company, to a toy company during my university years, to a "computer" company. However, I don't think they will last long in the electronic business. Atari's bankruptcy has shown that microcomputers made solely for gaming is nothing but a fad that will come to pass. But then again, time could prove me wrong.

I should get going now. Don't want to miss this milestone. I wonder what the patient will look like.

4 March 1987, 09:21

Well, one thing's for sure, this patient has caught me off guard. He's a 7 year old boy named Harry Potter, but he has been malnourished to the point where he keeps complaining of being dizzy all the time and his ribcage is somewhat visible, similar to starving Lebanese kids during the civil war. A check into his eye sockets also raises the possibility of anaemia, and a general eye check shows that he requires glasses. I've had a serious 30-minute-long conversation with his 'caretaker,' Mr. Vernon Dursley, threatening to drag him into court under the Children and Young Persons Act of 1933 regarding ill treatment of children.

It turns out that this boy is an orphan, but I feel that something's off about him. On his forehead is a scar shaped like a lightning emblem, similar to that of the Waffen-SS. Somehow, I don't think this is a regular birthmark. Were his parents members of an occult organization, and then something killed them and forced little Harry to be entrusted to the care of someone else? He did say that his uncle Vernon didn't like him, forcing him to sleep in a small room under the stairs. I truly wonder what's really going on with this family.

I just hope it has nothing to do with demons. I've had my fair share of fighting them and even now the scars have not healed. Accursed demon swords. It really stirs my stomach when I reminisce about it even though it dates back to the 16th century.

...

You immediately stop reading, shocked. 16th century?! If this text was real, the doctor will be at least 400-something years old by now. However, according to the information you were told, Doctor Irving Platt was born in 1949 and has lived in Merton for over 30 years at the very least. Questions begin filling your mind as you leave work that evening. Is the doctor making this up? Why did the doctor ask you to personally see your boss open the letter, and even going as far as sealing the letter with red wax? Then again, the usage of red wax alone is enough to raise suspicions, as it is a very obsolete method of letter security which no longer belongs in the 21st century. What kind of dealings does the doctor have with your boss Jameson? Who was that Frenchman calling himself Black Swan? Where is your place in all this? Your head begins to hurt from all the questions in your mind. You decide to just forget all about it as you enter the tube, thinking about dinner instead.

6:50 PM. After dinner, you tried to call the mysterious number again, but repeatedly the call would not connect. You return to your apartment and decided to read another one of those journals again. Maybe, they will contain all the answers, as what the mysterious Frenchman had said. Thus, you opened your laptop and opened the next file, titled "001: 26 June 1987".


	2. Road to Nowhere

26 June 1987, 08:35

Everything is packed up and plans have been prepared. I'm leaving for Dover today to visit my cousin Ferris. Cornelius will take over the clinic for the next 2 weeks, and I'm confident my kids are big enough (especially Jeff) to take care of themselves. I just hope the taxi fare doesn't increase any further, or I'll need to walk the rest of the way.

'

26 June 1987, 09:06

Great, just great. What a way to start a trip. Thanks to a traffic jam, not only do I have to pay extra for the taxi, but the train to Dover left 2 minutes before I arrived. It is true what they say: London is getting more and more congested with cars by the day. Looks like I'll just have to wait for the next one.

The next train arrives at 11:00, so I guess I'll just visit my old friend Albert in the pub near platform 9.

Notable news for today:

It appears that there will be a massive anti-government rally in Seoul tomorrow. When you look at it, South Korea's model of "democracy" is more akin to a dictatorship similar to the North. They even have mandatory military service for all youths there. I hope Geoffrey's fine.

Our arms race against germs continues. Sweden is developing a new antibiotic that claims to assist in the treatment of infections caused by strains of antibiotic-resistant bacteria. Of course, within a few years of mass distribution, the bacteria would have evolved countermeasures of their own, as always. I wish that the government views the bacterial threat the way it views the Red threat. Maybe then we can get a bunch of new vaccines.

They say Peter Beardsley is going to be transferred to Liverpool in this season, but I guess we'll just have to find out later. He's not going to be cheap, that's for sure.

'

26 June 1987, 11:43

I'm writing this in what appears to be the baggage compartment of a train, having virtually no memory of what happened between 09:30 and 11:00. The last thing I remembered was that a group of people, seemingly hooligans, tried to start a fight in the pub and I was knocked unconscious. I am certainly on a train, but I wonder if it is the one to Dover.

"Spirit of Hartshorn. Works every time. Feeling alright, sir?"

"Ugh, where am I?"

"Please, doctor. Cooperate with me and answer. Let me ask you once more. Are you alright?"

"Yes, I feel fine. Now, may I ask..."

By the time I regained consciousness, I was dazed, gagged, blindfolded, and tied up. At first I panicked, but then came a middle-aged man wearing a brown coloured Victorian era suit. I couldn't see his face clearly as I was down on the floor at the time. He was holding a small glass bottle and an ornate knife like those used during the 17th century. He placed the bottle near my nose to help me regain consciousness, opened the blindfold and the gag at first, followed by the ropes.

"Hush there, not now. Here, let me open that for you. Now stay here and don't move until I return."

"Wait, I still have..."

"They appear to have carried your belongings here too. But, I must stress to you that you must remain quiet, else, we both will be in great trouble."

"Listen, sir, I need to get to Dover today. My cousin is waiting for me."

"Silence, or I will knock you unconscious! This is your final warning. Do not force my hand."

The man spoke with a Victorian accent, similar to how my grandfather would talk, but in a rougher tone. His speech and vocabulary is noticeably dated. In this journal, I will do my best to transcribe any synonyms I come across into a more modern variant of English.

"I will return in a few hours. Do not leave this train car if you value your life. The hostiles are still with us on this train and they will not have second thoughts of killing you if they see you free."

I replied with a nod.

...

I feel like I've travelled through time, like Doctor Who. Observing the bags in this train, I noticed that they all looked like they belonged in an antiques shop. A quarter of them were Gladstone bags similar to those stored in the attic of my grandfather's house, which he claimed were passed down from his grandfather. On one corner of the room, I saw neatly packed square-shaped rucksacks which seem to date back to the 18th century, like those worn by British and American soldiers during their independence war. There are also a number of sporrans here and there, suggesting that this train may be heading north to Scotland.

The train interior itself was similar to those found in American cowboy films. There was no artificial light of any kind, but the sunlight gleaming through the wood provided enough lighting for me to write. There were three doors. Two on both ends of the train car and one large door on the side, locked with a large padlock. Oddly enough, when I looked outside for several minutes, I saw no sign of civilisation. For nearly an hour this train has been passing through a forested region. Left and right, I see nothing but trees. No roads, no houses, no stations and the like.

The air, however, was very clean. Despite this being very late in June, the air felt cool, like a spring breeze. I would never have the chance to enjoy such unpolluted air back in London. The moisture in the air kept me awake throughout the journey so far, and as I can go as far as to say that it felt empowering. No air purifier can come close to this.

Oddly enough, it hasn't rained thus far. The weather forecast said the entire south would be subjected to a brick of rain for the next few days, starting from this noon. Yet, as I look out to the sky, I see very few clouds. Am I still in England?

Or, more importantly, am I still in 1987?

'

26 June 1987, 16:03

I'm writing this entry in a boat in an underground stream, cutting through the darkness without knowing where we are, with only a single lantern acting as a guiding light.

But how did I get here? One may ask. Simply put, we jumped. We leapt out of the train when it was over a river and swam our way ashore.

True to his word, at slightly before 3, the Victorian man (named Arthur, as I would later find out) returned back to the train car I was in, and woke me up from my nap.

"Alright, Mr. Doctor. Rise and shine. The early bird gets the worm, or in this case, gets to escape from its cage!"

"Escape? Where are we going?"

"Don't talk so boisterously, doctor! We still have a little problem with the guards! Now, in approximately 3 minutes, this train will pass a bridge over the River Tweed. My friends will create a distraction to allow for the train to slow down, that we may safely jump off. Do you have your belongings with you?"

"Yes."

Shortly thereafter, I heard a loud, long whistle coming from the front side of the train. I can also feel the train car shaking and slowing down. Suddenly, I heard what sounded like multiple gunshots coming from the outside, but I couldn't discern from which side.

"Mowbray, this better be good. Alright, doctor, steel your heart and be ready!"

Arthur slapped me multiple times on the cheeks and steadied my arms by the door.

"Alohomora."

It was at this instance did I found out that the company I was mingling with were not of regular people, by every sense of the word.

Arthur pulled out his wand and shot a white bolt to the padlock of the train car. Faintly, I could hear the sound of shattering glass on the lock. Arthur gave it a good knock and dislodged the lock, before opening the door widely. A gust of air entered the cabin, and outside I saw a wide, raging river.

"I pray they still teach you muggles how to swim! On the count of five, doctor!"

I clasped my bags and said, "Very well, I'm ready!"

"One, two, five!"

Before I had the chance to react, Arthur pushed me down into the river. As I was falling, I saw my bags suspended in the air, flying to the riverbank. I hit the water before having a chance to assume a diving pose. The heavy current made it difficult to swim ashore, and I was washed downstream from where my bags are at, reaching the riverbank after being carried at a distance of a 10-minute stroll away from them.

I took a moment to compose myself, checking if I was still in one piece. I hadn't swam like that since my university years in Japan. Luckily, my boy scout training and my early morning jogs have prepared me for such a circumstance. My watch was also still in one piece, showing 15:06. I decided to walk upriver, where I met Arthur along the way, also a tad bit drenched.

"Well, that was, unusual," I said.

"Still in one piece, doctor?"

"Yes, I'm fine, thank you for your concern."

"I'm not convinced. You were swept a good distance away from the cave. It will take a while to get there. Are you sure you won't faint on the way?"

"No, but truly, I still have a number of questions. First of all, we haven't introduced ourselves. My name is Irving Platt. What's yours?"

"Well, doctor Platt. You still have quite a childlike friendliness, a trait uncommon for people of your age. My name is Arthur Stevens Trelawney."

Arthur Trelawney's appearance, if I can describe it in a few words, looks like a character out of a Charles Dickens book. Basically, a Victorian era stereotype of the middle class. His face is somewhat round, a bit disguised by his hair, which is slightly curly. He has a short moustache, and a stubble under his mouth. His skin appears stiff, with some veins visible on his hands, presumably from some prolonged period of physical work. However, he still maintains a white skin tone, implying that he probably did his work indoors. He is approximately 180 cm, slightly taller than I am.

"Next, how did you know I was a doctor?"

"The organization briefed me on that matter before I went to London."

"What kind of wizard organisation do you work at?"

"You appear to lack astonishment upon finding out that I was a wizard. The last muggle I rescued stood petrified after I used a spell, and I didn't even use a petrification spell to begin with. I had to kick him in the guts to get him moving. I'll tell you more when we reach the said organisation. To put things shortly, our job is to save regular people, whom we call muggles, like you, from evil wizards."

"Let's just say I've had some prior experience with them. I thank your rescue, but I have other affairs to attend to in my world."

"Prior experience?! Well, I'm afraid you can't leave so soon, Platt. We need your testimony for our paperwork first."

"Very well, but I still have a number of questions."

"Carry on as we walk."

The riverbank was awash with pebbles of varying sizes. From where we stood, I can see the pristine greenery of the Scottish hills, and the stone bridge from where we had jumped from earlier. The bridge looked somewhat like a Roman aqueduct, but was larger and suspended taller from where it normally would be. We walked along the rocky margin, with the river on the left and a wooded area on the right.

"First off, why were those wizards after me, of all people?"

"I do not know that, doctor. They seem to select people at random."

"But you know of the plan. You could halt it in its tracks!"

"I know the means, yet I know not the motives. That is left to God."

"Very well. Next, I wish to ask about where am I truly. Am I still in the British Isles? Am I still in 1987?"

"Yes, this is the Scottish Borders, in 1987 of the Year of our Lord based on the Gregorian calendar. However, this is not quite the muggle realm. This is our world, the wizard realm, where we fled to after the hunts centuries ago."

"It looks beautiful, unlike the sprawling towns and poor air caused by the Industrial Revolution."

"Industrial Revolution? Ah, I remember reading about that. That was the time when many of our wizards began infiltrating your world _en masse_ , learning from your sciences, copying your inventions, like that train up there. Many have garnered fame in the muggle world as well."

"I'll be sure to ask for names later. Now, if I remember correctly, don't you have broomsticks?"

"I left them at the blockhouse. I took the train here. Wait! Of course! I remember now. Have you had anything for lunch?"

"No. The last food I ate was breakfast, and that was only in a small quantity."

"So that's why you could not cope with the current! Here, have this."

Arthur gave me a fruit, larger than a grape but smaller than an orange, with a smooth texture like that of a tomato but coloured silver all around. As I took a bite, no water came out of it and it tasted as sweet as honey. The flesh was coloured brownish-red. It felt like eating a very sweet potato or cauliflower.

"I've never seen nor tasted anything like this in my world."

"Yes, the silver dewberry. The only dewberry which does not piss out its contents like a full bladder when you take a bite. It houses the water necessary for the seed in a different part of the plant, ensuring a constant trickle of water to the seed. Unlike the intermittent, and at times, excessive watering done by rain."

"You seem very knowledgeable about plants."

"Of course. I oversee the growth of crops in the den, from seed to harvest."

"And, I assume we need to enter the cave to reach the den?"

"Den, base, fortress, encampment, castle, barracks, it goes by numerous English names and we can't exactly agree on which one to use. Officially, it is called a castrum. In any case, you're right, but that's only the first step. Look. There are your belongings. A carpet bag, and a, um, is that a suitcase?"

"Yes, this is a muggle suitcase. Now, where is the cave?"

"Further upstream. But, do you wish to dry yourself first?"

"Well, if we stay here, the evil wizards you speak of may find us. I think it would be better if we keep moving."

"A wise decision, doctor."

...

After about 15 minutes of walking, we arrived in the entrance to a cave. It was quite spacious and cool within. Up to fifty people can hide in here and the fresh mountain air still can be felt. The cave had a number of stalactites and stalagmites, and there were no bats sleeping inside. If I brought my tent, I would set up camp here.

"Tis only the wick of the candle, Platt. Watch this."

Arthur went to a corner of the cave and grabbed hold of a stalactite. He then twisted it, and the rock behind him moved, revealing a crawl space. Arthur then used his wand to light the way forward and I followed closely behind. Suddenly, he closed the light on his wand, causing both of us to move in complete darkness. Before I could say a word, he grabbed my wrist and yanked me upwards, causing me to stand up by reflex. Then, he reopened the light on the tip of his wand, and I was astonished at what I saw. We were in an enormous cave, far larger than the first one we entered. There were many glimmering crystals inside, as well as an underground stream.

"Beautiful, isn't it?"

"Indeed."

"I haven't lost my admiration to this place. I remembered the first time I came here 30 years ago. Back then I was a 6th year student in the Hogwarts Magic Academy near Glasgow. We came here during our vacation days, and…"

I didn't pay attention to what Arthur was saying. Instead, I sat down and just kept staring at the surreal and captivating scenery in front of me. It was something out of a fairy-tale. The crystals glimmered in a multitude of colour, and the sound of water was calming. One could also observe the glimmer of the crystals reflecting on the water, as if staring into a sea of stars. I wish I had brought a camera. But then again, not even a camera could capture the true feeling of being here in person.

"Aguamenti."

A stream of water gushed into my face.

"Daydream's over, Platt. Come with me. There's a boat we can use."

"You know, you could just use another spell. One that does not get me drenched again."

We walked slightly upstream where I saw a small wooden boat tied to a post, enough to carry 6 people. The boat was made completely of wood and looked rather old, with several engravings on the sides. I fear that it may sink once we get on it. Within the boat was an unlit lantern chained to the boat's front side, which Arthur promptly lit up, shining with an eerie green flame.

"Through the grotto that lies beyond the hand…"

"What did you just say?"

"It's part of the directions we need to follow to reach the wizard den. I need to pronounce them aloud to recall my memory."

"When was the last time you went here?"

"Nearly a decade ago. We don't use this place too often."

"What made the wizards abandon this place?"

"It isn't abandoned. We only use this underground stream in case of emergencies. Usually, we use other means to travel."

Arthur untied the rope and we began heading downstream. We headed down one of the caves, and then the stream splits.

"Follow the stream with stones agleam…"

Arthur lowered the lantern just a little above the water, causing some of the stones to shine a blue colour. We went down that stream, when the water begins to pick up pace.

"Left for rapids, right for rocks, you had better tighten up your socks."

Arthur steered to the left.

"Rapids?!"

"What's wrong?"

*sigh* "Are there other, less dangerous means of reaching the base?"

"This one is the safest way considering the circumstances we are in. There is another way, but it involves scaling a very high cliff, visible from afar. If those evil wizards spot us, we would have no means of fighting back."

"Is the den located on top of a mountain?"

"No, it's located within a mountain."

The water continued to speed up until it felt like we were caught in the middle of an earthquake. I outstretched my arms and held on to both sides to prevent myself from falling. All my belongings are tucked safely under the seats. Oddly enough, despite all this shaking, the lantern did not spill any oil. Even stranger is the fact that the green flame could not be doused with water, even though it fell into the stream, twice. After about 10 minutes, the water calmed again, giving me time to write. At this point, I have been writing for the past 30 minutes.

"Irving, is that a journal book?"

"Uh…yes."

"How can you write without an ink well?"

"The ink is already in the pen itself."

"Can I see your pen?"

I gave my pen to Arthur.

"This is a strange device. It looks like a black twig, yet it is sturdy. It seems like I need to learn more about this.

(The pen is made out of plastic and it isn't as sturdy as it looks.)

'

26 June 1987, 16:54

We've been in this almost stagnant stream for nearly an hour and the wizard base is nowhere in sight. Arthur said that the current will take us there on its own, but I'm getting tired of waiting. Earlier this day, I was waiting for the train to Dover, and now I'm lost far beneath Scotland. Will we ever arrive? Will I ever return? I'm now increasingly concerned for what the future may hold, as this trip is becoming more and more like a road leading to nowhere.


	3. Six Hundred Feet Under

26 June 1987, 20:46

"You're finally up?"

I woke up when the boat was already moored beside a pier, located in a small underground dock. The dock itself was a covered structure shaped similarly to a five-sided box, with the open side facing the river. The dock had a lot of wood lying around, and a few more wooden boats were already in the water. It was brightly lit with torches, but also empty. There were only two of us inside at the time.

"Yes, I'm up."

The time was slightly before 8 PM, which meant that we were on the boat for over 4 hours.

"Very well. We should get you to your quarters. I'll also get some dinner prepared for you."

It was a long walk from the dock to the room. We started by entering a spiral staircase, through a stone corridor lined by glowing green stones, and emerged behind a wooden panel in a corridor which looked like part of a hotel or an inn. We then turned left at one of the intersections, and climbed up three flights of stairs to reach what appears to be the ground floor.

The foyer looked impressive. The overall atmosphere looked like it was built in the late medieval period, although there are several bits of furniture that look much older than that. I see Celtic engravings on the wooden beams, sometimes glowing with a certain hue of either green or blue, adding light to the candles floating in the air. Multiple tapestries lined the stone walls, and the floor appeared to be made of granite.

"When you set aside all the candles, the engravings glow brighter. The floor can also glow if needed to."

The stairs are also worth mentioning. They do not remain affixed in one place. Instead, the steps can move and float in the air depending on where we are going. All the steps were made of wood, but the railings were not present, and we had to wait for a few moments until heading further out. As we ascended further up, I began to walk slower as I feared falling down.

"Don't be like a scared cat, Platt. If you fall, I can catch you."

We finally headed down one final corridor, into a large bedroom which seems to be part of a medieval inn. The walls, floor, and ceiling are made of wood, the bed made of straw, the pillows made of hay put inside a burlap sack, and the lighting is provided by oil lamps hanging on iron hangers. There were no windows, no toilet, and no air conditioning. There were only two stools on the other end of the room. Despite that, it does feel nice here. The air is cool already.

"In you go there, a sorthan for thine stay, as my ancestors would say. You've really spent all your vigour back there, Platt."

"What happened?"

"You collapsed after we passed the rapids, and slept like a stone for the next few hours. I could not tell if you were exhausted or bored."

"..."

Arthur then peered outside of the bedroom and took a small bugle. He blew a long note and yelled out: "Dinner for 3-5-West-8! We have a guest!"

"Who were you talking to?"

"That's not your concern. I'll just say that the food will be delivered shortly. Now, Platt, I need to go write some paperwork for the archives. Tomorrow morning, I'll show you around. Don't leave this room without me, unless you wish to go to the restrooms. They are on the right side of the stairs."

Arthur then slammed the door and left. A few seconds later he returned and said, "I just remembered something. If you want to sleep, do not snuff out the fire on the oil lamp. Instead, put them down from the cleeks and into this box to block the light. Now be a good muggle and don't try to escape, else you make it hard for the both of us."

'

26 June 1987, 21:34

Several minutes after Arthur left, I heard a knock on the door, followed by a bell which sounded like wind chimes. As I opened the door, I saw a metallic tray set down on the floor, with a small figure scurrying away from the door. Whatever it was, it was already a good distance away, so I did not see it clearly. It had a humanoid shape, but it moved like a monkey, running hunched and very quickly for a creature of its size.

I tried to go after it and see where it came from, heading to the end of the corridor. Then, nearing the end, I saw a flash of light. That creature vanished without a trace, and I couldn't even find the door from where it came from.

The meal wasn't very delicious and it also looked strange. There were green potatoes which tasted like spinach, dark brown leek-shaped vegetables which tasted like black peppered cheese, and a reddish-purple fruit that I never saw before. It was the size of a strawberry, it felt as soft as a marshmallow, and it tasted like an orange. All these foods are placed on plates seemingly made of silver. I kept the seed inside a small piece of cloth for further study when I get back.

That is, if I ever will get back…

I think I should go to sleep now. Maybe I'll feel better tomorrow.

'

27 June 1987, 07:42

On Saturday mornings like these, my oldest son Jeff usually tries to make something in the kitchen. I had to admit, it was awful, but I never cared how bad it tasted. I just swallowed the whole thing. Salty sandwiches, overcooked oatmeal, even Coca-Cola sweet tea (Well, this one actually tasted decent enough). However, even though the food delivered to me here is tastier, it feels…hollow. My body just doesn't accept this bowl of vegetable soup that I'm eating. I feel all the muscles in my stomach pushing the food upwards, as if refusing to digest it altogether.

This is only my first breakfast here and my body already hates this place. I doubt if I can survive for another week here without falling into a bout of depression.

And when you wake up, it's a new morning…  
The sun is shining, it's a new morning…  
And you're going, you're going home…

(On a side note, the oil lamps that I put in the box last night is still burning. What kind of oil are these wizards using?)

'

27 June 1987, 12:40

"Good afternoon, Platt. How was your first night here?

"I couldn't stay here. I have my own affairs to attend to. I need to head back."

"Platt, if only you knew the predicament we are all in."

Arthur looked somewhat different when he met me today. I can see signs of fatigue in his face. He was also wearing medieval peasant clothes, like the ones I saw in Monty Python, but much cleaner.

"Anyway, if you're bored, maybe I can take you downstairs. Just wear these clothes and follow me.

Arthur gave me a set of medieval clothes and a wizard robe

"Listen, Platt. Whatever you do, avoid excessive eye contact and let me do all the talking."

"Wait, where are we going?"

"We're going for a little tour of this blockhouse, starting from the mess hall and tavern."

We first went down the stairs to the ground floor, waiting for the stairs to switch position before walking down. After that, we walked through a corridor on the left, where Arthur pressed against a section of the wall. The stone then moved and opened some sort of secret door, revealing a stairway leading down. In contrast to the predominantly wooden building, the stairway seems to be carved out directly from solid rock, and this one was affixed in place. We went down the tunnel, descending deeper and deeper until we saw a small torch where an intersection was seen. We headed left again and ascended until I can see a light on the other side. Arthur pushed the wall again and then I found myself inside a tavern.

The room is lit by candles, the furniture is antiquated, and the drinks are still kept in large barrels. As usual, there are no windows. The tavern isn't very crowded, but there was a small group of people who kept looking at us since we exited the tunnel. Finally, one of them, who was wearing renaissance era clothing, walked up to Arthur and said, "Commander, we're back."

Arthur immediately lost all signs of fatigue in his face, looking shocked and pale.

"Already?! How are... What made you finish so quickly?"

"The Irish wizards have finished the job by the time we arrived, so we returned back here."

"Well, I see, it must have been, er, convenient."

Another man, who was wearing traditional Scottish clothing and a hat, then said "Who is this wizard you brought, commander? Another new addition to our team?"

"No, James. He's... a wanderer from a faraway land."

"Where is he from then? France? The Holy Roman Empire? The Spanish Realm? The Republic? Or even further?"

"I don't know, he doesn't speak English nor Latin."

"Your speech tells that you're lying, commander, or maybe you were just exhausted. You would normally not stutter like so. Old man, please, go ahead."

The third person in the group, an old and rather short man wearing the outfit of a medieval noble, then came up to me and began asking questions in French, Spanish, Portuguese, German, Italian, Greek, some form of Scandinavian language, and even Arabic. I then replied with こんにちは, and he stopped talking, looking confused. Arthur was equally puzzled at what I just said.

"Ko-ni-si-wa?"

"What the bloody hell is that supposed to mean?" asked James with a gruff tone.

"Is it one of the Eastern languages? That which are spoken beyond the Imaus?"

"That would be the most reasonable explanation, but I don't know for sure," said Arthur, still looking puzzled.

The old man then turned to James and said, "If it were true, that clearly makes him a wizard from a faraway land. I have never travelled east of the Euphrates River before, even in my 60-odd years of working here."

The man wearing the renaissance era clothes then asked, "Then why is he wearing European clothes?"

"I made him wear that so he won't stick out like a sore thumb, William."

"That's a pity. I would've liked to see him in his native attire. Now, we know that he's from a faraway land, but where is he from? His round, slightly oval face looks like an Irish, his short, black hair is reminiscent of a French, and his slightly dark skin doesn't tell too much. What sets him apart would be his blue eyes, most commonly found in people from the Far North. If he were from Europe, he may probably be from Armorica, or Gothiscandza."

(It's amazing how the William managed to accurately map my ancestry just by looking at me.)

"Old man," asked William, "You've read numerous books and know a lot of people. Have there been any mention of people in the Far East with blue eyes?"

"Of the few books I've read regarding the Far East beyond the Imaus Mountains, none say that they have blue eyes. Both Marco Polo and Ibn Battuta wrote that they either had black or brown, and our own tomes confirm that too. Their cats are the ones with blue eyes."

The fourth and last member of the group, a woman aged about 30 who had blonde hair and wearing Viking clothes, then said, "Maybe he comes from Hyperborea, or maybe the Great Southern Continent."

"No, Leiva. Look at the way he breathes. He appears to come from a more temperate climate, nowhere near as cold as your homeland in the Viking principalities. The only logical explanation is if he came from somewhere east of Manzi."

"Beyond Manzi? Are there still any more peoples beyond it? Manzi itself is possibly located near to the edge of the habitable world."

"Cristobal discovered a new continent after he crossed the seemingly endless Atlantic Ocean. It may be a long shot, but I believe that it may be the case of this stranger. He probably sailed west, landed in Cathay or Manzi, and continued going in the direction which the sun sets."

"Master Langston, are you implying that there is still yet more land to be discovered beyond Manzi? Ptolemy wrote that it was impossible to live to the east of Serica."

"Ptolemy also mentioned the lands of Sinæ, located east of Serica."

"Yet there is simply no mention of them being habitable! In reference to the Geographia, the eastern extremity of the habitable earth is limited by the meridian drawn through the metropolis of the Sinæ, at a distance from Alexandria of 119.5 degrees, reckoned upon the equator, or about eight equinoctial hours. In addition, you are a bit mistaken. Sinæ lies south of Manzi, not on the east side. Even if there are still lands beyond it, it is impossible for humans to live there."

"Conjecture, conjecture, young lady. Much to learn, you still have," said the old man in a slower pace of speech. "Yes, I admit my mistake, Manzi is north of Sinæ. However, you are basing that line of thought on a premise not yet proven to be correct. We still do not know of the presence of this uninhabitable zone for certain. Only Ptolemy has mentioned it, and we all know that his works are inaccurate at certain points. He has also rejected the claims of Eratosthenes of Syene, placing the Earth at a circumference of 180000 stadia, and not 252000, and many Arabic scholars have disproved the shorter value. Furthermore, how are your grades in Latin?"

The old man continued talking in Latin for over 5 minutes, before finally ending with:

"So, to conclude, not only did you only use the Geographia as a standalone source without comparing it to other works, but you've also fallen into numerous misunderstandings attributed to a false translation of Latin. I know you're still young, but you must understand this: Navigation is not merely a game of numbers. You need to broaden your knowledge beyond the books you bought during your academy years."

During that 5-minute long speech, everyone was listening attentively. Arthur even grabbed a chair and pulled it to their table. He also gave me a goblet of water. The goblet was heavy and appeared to be made of iron, but there were no signs of rust. As usual, it had Celtic style engravings on its outer surface.

"Had I been 25 years younger I would've led an expedition myself to find out more. Anyway, where did you find this wanderer, young commander?"

"Stop addressing me like that, Herbert. I found him in Newcastle."

*sigh* "You really are like your father, Arthur. You never fancied titles. Anyway, what are we going to do with him?"

"Maybe we should just give him some gold, take him to a Persian merchant fleet heading for Samarkand, and let him go back home," suggested William.

"Bad idea, Gareth. He left his home to see the world and you want to send him back? I say we take him on the next fleet that departs for Transatlantica, preferably through Iceland, Greenland, and Markland. He may be an explorer mapping out new regions," said James.

"Macpherson, I think that our young commander here should have the final word. Well, what do you think, boy?"

"...I think that he should stay here for a while. He would need time to recover his strength. He was captured by the death eaters and... Master Langston, what are you doing?"

At the moment Arthur was talking, Langston grabbed the wrist of my right hand and felt my palms.

"(Lower voice) His hands are soft. He doesn't seem to be a wanderer. (Higher voice) Commander Trelawney, is there something you're hiding from us?"

"I told you, I don't know much about him."

Langston's face turned sour, as if he had been double-crossed.

"How do you know he was a wanderer?"

"He spoke with a foreign language and I drew the most logical conclusion."

"Drew the most logical conclusion?!"

Langston stood up from his chair, but quickly sat back down.

"Dammit, my back... Anyway, this entire conversation so far can be regarded as a conjecture as well. Drawing the most 'logical' conclusion without any proof or evidence to back it up is simply absurd. Who knows, he may be a spy feigning stupidity, and your brash actions have allowed for him to infiltrate our blockhouse. In addition to that, I've found out that you used our little underground river yesterday. Judging from the engravings on the boat, it was taken somewhere from the River Tweed. Now, weren't you going to The Orkneys?"

"High Commander Walcott gave me a private assignment, so I discarded my previous plans."

"Then what were you doing on the River Tweed?"

"It was part of the mission. I have no right nor obligation to reveal any details."

The group then became silent. Arthur then signalled me to follow him. As we entered the stairway, Herbert shouted, "I can see through your lies, young Trelawney!"

"You will get your answers during dinner. Right now I must report to the High Commander."

Arthur immediately took me back to my room, walking at a faster pace. Once inside, he sat on the stool, looking flustered. He lay silent for several minutes, and then he said, "Sorry, tour's cancelled. I never thought that they would be here."

"Those people back there?"

"Yes. They were my squad members. I deliberately sent them on a mission to Ireland so I can relax for a while, but they returned far earlier than anticipated. They were supposed to be there until next week."

It appears that co-worker conflicts also occur in the wizard world.

"They addressed you as "commander". Do you work in a mercenary group or something akin to that?"

"No, we're not mercenaries. We're more of a wizard sentry force. Imagine the Cohortes Urbanae, but with each castrum having jurisdiction spanning multiple counties and possessing its own fiefs. Our job is to protect regular wizards from the evil wizards. However, sometimes those evil wizards may kidnap a muggle, and then we have to intervene.

What is the Cohortes Urbanae? These wizards apparently still retain a lot of Latin influence within their culture.

"Can you tell me more about them?"

"About what? Our job?"

"No, about your team."

"Fine, but put down your book and that... pen... and don't write anything until I finish talking. This will be a long one."

Arthur's Squad:

\- William Gareth (age 42, born in Glasgow)

Arthur's right hand man. Graduated OWL from the Magic Academy of Edinburgh, excels in combat and scavenging. He has been part of the team since 1976, has been friends with Arthur since 1956 during the academy years, and once saved Arthur's life in the Orkney Isles. He is also the most likely person to get stuck with all the paperwork as his proficiency with Latin is the best within the group. He has a laid back personality and doesn't like to get involved in combat, but he is a very skilled fighter who would "attack like a savage beast" when he or his friends are cornered.

Note: OWL = Ordinary Wizarding Level

\- Herbert Langston (age 91, born in Inverness)

The 4th oldest field operative in the wizard base, and the oldest member of Arthur's squad, joining back in 1915. He has fought side by side with 4 generations of the Trelawney family. He used to be a master of performing subterfuge, but age has begun to take a toll on his body. He now serves as a tactician since he turned 75. Usually addresses Arthur as "boy" or "young commander". He has a lot of friends on the continent, knows nearly half of existing European languages, and is fluent in 15 of those. Many in the base view him as a teacher, and he has embraced that role too, passing on knowledge to the younger operatives.

\- James Macpherson (age 38, born in Edinburgh)

A NEWT graduate from the Magic Academy of Belfast. He has a great amount of combat skills, both magical and physical, and a short fuse. He used to be one of the flyers in a wizard sport Arthur calls "Quid-ditch". In the field, he sometimes gets in trouble due to his questionable methods and lack of regard to plans. As expected, he often gets into conflict with Langston during mission planning, often regarding the plans made by Langston to be "too rigid". His critiques are correct most of the time, but he has a rough way of getting his point across. He would sometimes burn the map altogether if he didn't like the plan. Some of his clansmen are also working here.

Note: NEWT = Nastily Exhausting Wizarding Tests, equivalent to the US Honour Roll.

\- Leiva Nordstrøm (age 31, born in Nidaros/Trondheim)

"She is a recent transfer to my squad who arrived straight from Norway 2 weeks ago. I know very little about her, except for the fact that she is an excellent swimmer and navigator. The High Commander told me that she would play a vital role in the missions to come, and that she will leave once the mission is over. I think it has something to do with the Russia issue."

"Anything else you want to ask, Irving?"

"What is the Russia issue?"

"It will take me a long time to explain, so maybe I'll tell you next time."

"Are there any wizard villages or towns around here?"

"The closest town is a full day's march from here. This base is built inside a mountain far away from wizard settlements. Of course, if you knew how to fly, you could reach them much faster."

"What for? Won't it just make it difficult for you to obtain supplies?"

"This base is self-sufficient. We already have a farming quarter, drinking water from 3 streams, a storehouse enough to last us 5 years, and several defensive structures."

"When was this base built?"

"Sometime in the early 11th century. I forgot the exact year."

"Has this base ever been attacked?"

"It's been attacked many times. In the past century alone, we had several attacks, both major and minor. The last major attack happened over 5 years ago, caused by a certain group of evil wizards calling themselves death eaters, but that too is a story for another time."

"Have muggles ever attacked this place? Especially during the witch hunts centuries ago?"

"Irving, our defensive structures are not only used to defeat enemies, but also to prevent hostile muggles from discovering us. We value deterrence over conflict."

"I see…"

"Now, it's my turn to ask questions. What was that language you spoke in? I think it's an oriental language, but I couldn't tell which one."

"It's Japanese, from the land of Japan, east of China."

Arthur then pulled out 12 pieces of paper from his bag, all of which were of larger apparent size compared to the bag itself, and arranged them on the bed. Upon closer inspection, it appears to be a map.

"China, Japan, these names are foreign to me. To clarify matters, I have set down a muggle map made by Martin Waldseemüller in 1507. Now, can you point to me where Japan is?"

"Hang on, this is Cathay, or what we call China. That means, Japan would be right here."

I pointed to a sea zone east of Cathay.

"There?! But, there's nothing... Wait. Let me guess. This is due to your inaccuracy. Is this the same case with the Northwest Passage problem?"

"What problem?"

"Right, of course you wouldn't know. Let me explain from the beginning. In the wizard world, we all know that muggle-made maps are notoriously inaccurate. If we were to review one, we are told to read them only to compare with our maps. As a little example, for the past few centuries, wizard maps depict the Northwest Passage. That changed 5 years ago, when they were discovered to be non-existent. Numerous voyages led by the Hafsten clan and financed by the Counties of Lofoten, Lade, and Akureyri during summertime have shown that it was impossible to get through Hyperborea past Helluland. The ice there was impermeable."

I asked Arthur where the places he mentioned were located on the map. He points to the northern parts of Canada as Helluland, the Arctic as Hyperborea, Lofoten and Lade in the coast of Norway, and Akureyri in eastern Iceland.

"A little something I could tell you, Irving. Not only were these changes very recent, but it just so happens that Leiva was on one of the ships during that expedition. She has had real voyager training, and in the process also managed to redraw our maps."

"It would be very interesting to talk to someone like that."

"Alright, now, changing the conversation, I'm in a bit of a pickle here. You see, Langston is on to me. It's useless to lie to him, as he's just too experienced. However, here is where I have an edge. He suspects that you're a wizard from Europe, but he doesn't suspect that you're a muggle. Now, during dinnertime, he will interrogate me like an inquisitor, so I need your help in coming up with a good excuse."

"Inquisitor, inquisitor, Spanish Inquisition, nobody expects, wait! I think I got it! Do you know about the Jesuits?"

"The Jesuit Order? The one founded by Loyola? Yes, we know them. We know them all too well. The Pope made them in a last ditch effort to save us from the witch hunters, but then the new Pope used them to hunt us down instead. They did more damage to our numbers than any other group, forcing us to cut off all contact with muggles."

"Do you know about the missionary work they did beyond Europe?"

"Yes, I, wait. I see what you're implying, Platt! You're smarter than you look. You want me to frame you as a Jesuit monk! The only problem is, monks are celibate. We need to come up with something better. What if you were part of a group of Portuguese peasants and sailors who decided not to be involved in the 1580 Crisis, stole a ship, and made a settlement in lands far away unbeknownst to the Crown?"

"That can work."

That scenario sounded an awful lot like the Mayflower. In addition, what did Arthur mean by the 1580 crisis?

"Now, to make it more convincing, can you tell me a little about Japan?"

Emphasize on the phrase "a little" on the sentence above. What was supposed to be a short conversation spiralled into a very long one, as Arthur would chain question after question, asking about increasingly niche topics which I struggle to recall. We spent nearly an hour talking, and I had to ask for a drink twice. After we're done, Arthur said, "Thank you, Platt. I now know what to say to Langston during dinner."

"Wait, Arthur, can I ask you something?"

"What is it?"

"Can you ask the cook to give me regular muggle food instead?"

"Well, it's rather complicated. Down here, the only plants we can grow are the ones that can thrive without sunlight, and regular muggle vegetables are rather rare. One would have to retrieve them from the nearest village, and that is barely enough to feed everyone on a single blockhouse, let alone the entire fortress.

"Very well, I'll try to get used to your foods then."

"Don't worry, Platt. Our food is really good for your health. If you eat it for a week I guarantee that you will have the ability to swim against the current on the River Tweed. But, if you really want some muggle food, perhaps we could add some Nipplewort leaves for your dinner tonight."

"We don't eat Nipplewort leaves anymore."

"Really? Then how about Shepherd's Purse?"

"What on earth is that?"

"You dare call yourself a medicus without knowing the Shepherd's Purse plant?! It is one of the most vital plants you require to make healing elixirs! A good potion like that can stop bleeding in a matter of minutes. I really doubt what your true profession is, Irving. I assume you also don't know of St. John's Wort, do you?"

"I know what that is, it is used to make elixirs which calm the mind."

I never thought that reading a random article about alternative medicine in the newspaper could someday be useful. Although I disagree with most of it, some people can be cured by placebo alone.

"Yes, that's correct. That was unexpected. Anyway, I should be going now. I need to do some paperwork. Here are your keys. You are free to explore this floor but do not go downstairs without me."

Arthur left the room, leaving me alone once more, with nothing to do and no way to go home.

'

27 June 1987, 20:07

Shortly after I finished eating dinner (nipplewort, chicken meat, and 3 unknown vegetables), I heard footsteps approaching my room. At first I thought it was Arthur walking upstairs again, but then I heard that there were two sets of footsteps. I locked the door and stepped away, just to be safe. Then, I began hearing them talk.

"He locked the door, and the key is still in the hole."

"Never mind. We'll do this the old way. Expellarimus!"

A purple bolt shot out from the keyhole, pushing the key out, sent it flying across the room, and colliding with the wall on the other side. The distance between the door and the opposite wall was about 7 meters, but the key dropped only by a negligible amount.

"Alohomora."

The keyhole turned white, and then I heard clicking sounds. The door then opened, and I saw Gareth and Macpherson talking to each other.

"Listen, I just want to see whether or not Arthur was lying. The old man did say that his hands were soft. If that's the case, he shouldn't put up too much of a fight."

"I do not condone this, James. What if Arthur was right? He may be far stronger than we first thought and I don't see the need to risk injury from picking a fight with strangers this close to the war. Besides, if he were a foreigner who doesn't understand Latin, how are you going to tell him that you intend to fight?"

"Ah, silence, William. If I punch him in the face, he'll know clearly what we mean."

I greeted them with a slight smile, and slowly walked towards the door. Suddenly, James ran towards me and hurled a jab towards my face. I quickly ducked and grabbed his wrist, and struck at his armpit and lower chest, followed by stepping on his right knee which caused James to fall. I then stared at Gareth, who raised both of his hands at chest level and began stepping back.

"James, I think we should go. There is nothing for us to gain in..."

"What?! You think I'm hurt? I have yet to start!"

"James, we still have no clues of his capabilities."

"True, but he is alone, and there are two of us. If the situation worsens, I can always depend on your help."

"I wish to partake in none of this!"

"Are you afraid, William?"

"This has nothing to do with fright!"

Macpherson then tried to kick my stomach, but I quickly stepped aside so that my body was slightly beside his leg. I then held his ankle with my left hand and his knee with my right, and pushed against his leg. He fell head first on the floor, cursing in some form of old English or Gaelic.

"He's not that bad."

"James, if the commander finds out about this, we would be in deep trouble."

"I don't care about the commander. It's just a useless title meant to instil order. Other than that, he's no different than the rest of us."

At this point Macpherson was beginning to get serious. He threw punches at my face, all of which I managed to dodge. But, when I grabbed his wrist, he jumped and stepped on my shins. Because I was still leaning backwards after all that dodging, his step caused me to fall. He was relentless. Before I hit the floor, he punched my forehead, yet the blow felt lighter because I was already falling. He followed it up with multiple punches to my shoulder joints and diaphragm, but as he did, I managed to use my right index and middle finger to poke his eyes. He paused for a moment, and so I held both of my hands against his neck and threw him beside me. He rapidly stood back up and tried to punch my stomach. As my arms were hurting after repeated punches to the shoulder joints, I instead slammed my body against him, and followed it up by tackling his waist. It turned out to be a bad move, as he punched the back side of my head and caused me to become dazed. However, I also managed to punch hard down to his groin, which put him out of the fighting for a moment.

"James…that's enough. I think you had one cup too many."

Looking back, James's breath did smell like alcohol during the entire fight.

"What are you talking about? It's been months since I met someone who can actually last this long. If you want this to be done quickly, come here and help me."

"I would rather not! This is your mess."

"Then what if the commander suddenly decides to pay his precious foreigner a visit? We will both be in big trouble, and you can't just abandon me in this state. After all, you were the one last sighted leaving the tavern with me, so it would only be natural that the primary suspicion falls on you."

"You…very well. I'll help, but I'm only doing this because I have no other choice."

This is where the fight really gets difficult. In my opinion, Gareth actually fights better then James. His punches are faster and sometimes I can't even block them. Once in a while, he pretends that he will punch with his right hand, then he retracts it at the last moment, using his left hand to deliver a heavy blow instead. It may be because James was drunk and Gareth wasn't, so he was able to rely on his mind a lot more. However, over time, I managed to decipher the pattern of his attacks, and began to fight back. It is very difficult for me to describe the details of this fight, as I was too focused on covering myself and repulsing their strikes. After about 5 minutes, James grabbed the stool and hurled it to my head, causing me to fall down. Then, I sprung back up and tackled him down, and instinctively delivered a heavy punch to his face afterwards. His nose and mouth began bleeding, and he couldn't stand straight.

"James! That's enough!"

"We came here to test what this wanderer can do, right?"

Macpherson pulled out his wand.

"James, what are you up to?! You know that it's forbidden to use combat magic inside the blockhouse, unless if it's an emergency!"

"I said I don't care! We won't know what he is capable of unless he is pushed to the limit. We'll start simple first. Let's see if he can still fight back."

Small, purple bolts shaped like tiny electric balls began flying across the room. I overturned the table and took cover. Then, I took my Swiss Army Knife and charged straight to James, only to get hurled back to the corner of the room. It felt like getting hit by a basketball at speeds equal to that of a baseball, but the collision force with the wall felt like being hit by a motorcycle. After the fight, I took a closer look at the corner of the room, and found a crack in the wood where I collided with the wall.

"You leave me no choice, James."

I was out for a brief moment after the collision against the wall. Everything I saw was blurred afterwards, but I did see James and Gareth seemingly fighting each other. Gareth was trying to reach for James's wand, but on his left hand, I saw what appeared to be a dagger. James was struggling to get Gareth's left hand away from him, while also gripping his wand tightly. A few seconds later, I saw a red flash, and Gareth was lying flat on the floor.

Immediately, I hid back behind the bed to avoid getting hit again. Then, I remembered something I had learned back in Japan: deodorant is flammable. I took a can of deodorant from my bag, grabbed the oil lamp, and sprayed fire right to his face. He managed to cast a water shield to block the fire, but at the same moment the can also caught on fire as I was holding it too closely to the lamp. By reflex, I threw it under his feet. Within a few seconds, and to my surprise, the can exploded like a grenade.

BOOM!

Writing this entry now, I noticed how easily the can blew up. Deodorant cans are normally not this easy to explode. The fire from this oil lamp may be hotter than I thought.

After that instance, there was nothing but silence. As I looked above the bed, I saw that MacPherson was knocked unconscious and bleeding profusely. He looked like he had just stepped on a land mine, only with more burn marks. Gareth regained consciousness because of the water, but he was also breathing heavily and not in a good condition. Shrapnel had penetrated quite deeply into his legs. His coat was also blown off and is burning on the other side of the room.

"What happened here? Why are all of you bleeding like this?"

Not a minute later, Arthur showed up with Langston. Gareth slowly lifted his hands and pointed to me

"Well, young commander, I owe you a galleon. As strange as it sounds, you were right about them trying to pick a fight."

*sigh* "I knew this would happen. 3 mugs were certainly too much. He tends to display an excessive amount of recklessness afterwards. Master Langston, can you help me…"

"I know, I know. Let the old man do everything, just like what your father told you."

Arthur rushed to give them elixirs of multiple colours and doused the fires with magic. Langston blew a long note on a small bugle similar to what Arthur has, and yelled out: "3-5-West-8! Two men wounded! Legs burnt 'neath the skin and likely asunder! Get the plague carts 'fore they bleed to death!" in a strong Glaswegian accent.

Within seconds, I heard about 6-8 pairs of footsteps, marching in double-pace like an army, and the continuous sound of wheels grinding against the floor. Then, shortly after they stopped, Langston used magic to fly them onto the carts outside. I can hear Gareth talk while he was floating in the air.

"That foreigner's a demon, I tell you. He hurled some form of iron fireball at us without even using a wand. It exploded into a thousand pieces right under James, hurling small iron shards to our legs. Whatever you do…"

"Now get going! You know where to take them!" shouted Langston.

The sounds disappeared as quickly as they appeared.

"Stupid boy. No, not stupid. Foolish. Let's just hope he learns his lesson after this. Hey, young commander, this kid's your pet, right? I'll leave him to you. Now I need to inform the Chattans that another of Muirach's sons has been wounded, and fill in any paperwork they will have missed.

Very well, master Langston.

…

"Platt, are you alright?"

"Yes, I'm fine."

"This is already the third time this year…"

"What do you mean?"

"James has a tendency to get into fights. I think it's because of his ancestry. He comes from a line of Redshanks, as you have seen. Every time he gets slightly drunk, and even at times when he's sober, he wants to get into a fight. It seems like that's the only way in which he can vent off steam."

This sounds slightly more like a mental disorder rather than a genetic trait.

"Is everyone from his family or clan like this?"

"Yes, but not to his extent. I know Highlanders are on average rougher than we Bordermen, yet James has been reprimanded dozens of times back in the academy and even suspended thrice for violent behaviour. And to top it off, most of the reprimands were given out by another Highlander: Professor McGonagall. The only reason he wasn't expelled was thanks to his exceptional grades."

"What if he sees it as a way to establish his identity? Or, to establish a feeling of security to himself by proving that he's stronger? Has there been any traumatizing events that could have shaped his past?"

"Well, I never thought of it that far. Perhaps a little check is required. I must commend you, however. You managed to overpower Macpherson despite being a muggle. Maybe our food has started affecting you."

"Uh…thanks?"

Overpower? Had Arthur seen the entire fight he would have chosen another word. I had completely lucked out.

"I should be going now. Anyway, do you attend church? If you want to, I could bring you to the chapel tomorrow morning. Service starts at 3 AM."

"That early in the morning?!"

"3 Ante Meridiem is early? You would be correct had it been winter, but not in these summer months."

"Hang on, do you mean, Ante Meridiem as in 3 hours before noon?"

"Yes."

"Fine by me, I guess."

"Good. I'll see you tomorrow, Platt."

The wizards apparently still use the old meaning of "Ante Meridiem".

'

27 June 1987, 22:18

By now Ferris is waiting for me in Dover, but I'm likely 600 feet under the Scottish Highlands with no way of getting out in the foreseeable future. I just hope that there's another avenue of escape. I'm getting sick of the food here.


	4. A Deeper Truth

28 June 1987, 08:51

At this point, I wished that I had brought a camera. The church mentioned by Arthur looked really archaic, as if it was built over 1000 years ago. It was made mostly of stone, erected in a dome shape like an igloo. It was located in the middle of a large empty space inside the cave. We had to walk quite a bit on a stone road lit with torches to reach it. In addition to that, we were told to wear our coats with cloaks up all the time, shrouding our faces. It felt like I was a member of some shady secret society.

The inside of the church was even stranger. It did not look like a church at all, but more of a pagan temple. For starters, it was enormous on the inside. It may look like a small stone igloo on the outside but the interior rivals cathedrals in size. It felt like walking into a baseball pitch. There were seats made of polished stone, but nobody was sitting down. Everyone was standing still like a statue. The altar itself wasn't located at the front, but at the centre, and it had a circular shape. The distance between the seats and the altar was around 10 m, and the altar itself was around 4 m in diameter. The walls were painted with a lot of Celtic patterns, and the cross used in those patterns was the Irish Cross.

The seats were further divided into 8 sections, separated by a stairway. At the top of each stairway and away from the crowd was a guard, dressed like a medieval soldier and not wearing a cloak. There were also guards standing among the congregation, spread out seemingly at random. I could count nearly 500 people inside the room at this time, filling less than a fifth of the total seats, with the injured and the elderly on the lower seats. Near the altar, I can see numerous thuribles floating in the air at differing heights filled with smoking incense, and the smell was pungent. Even though I sat far away from the thuribles, I can still smell the incense.

Service should start in 5 minutes so I'll end this entry here.

'

28 June 1987, 11:31

"So how was our church?"

"The building? It was strange. It looked more like a giant pagan ritual house than a church."

"Well, I have to admit. That church was established a long time before this base was, and the building was even older than that. Some say the building dates back to the times of the First Empire but I personally think it was built sometime in the 8th century."

"And, regarding the service, is it necessary to use Latin all the time?"

The entire service was carried in Latin. Not just the prayers and songs, but also the entire sermon. During the sermon, there were a total of 9 priests. There were 8 wearing white cloaks with their hoods off, facing the 8 segments of the congregation. The leading one who stood on the podium, which I originally thought of as an altar, was wearing a very elaborate set of clothes. He was wearing a long coat, a turban, a sleeveless tabard, an epaulette on both sides, and a belt, all coloured a mix of blue, purple, and scarlet red.

The sermon started off with the lead priest taking out an enormous Bible and reading out a passage, but afterwards, he closed it and walked off the podium to join with the congregation. The entire room then pulled out their Bibles, some in the form of scrolls, and began talking to one another. At times, the priests would also join in with the conversation, pointing to other verses in the Bible. It turns out that in wizard churches, the interaction between priest and congregation went both ways.

Again, everything was spoken in Latin. I didn't understand a word.

They stopped when the head priest with the colourful clothes took out a small curved horn and blew it, causing a noise which wasn't too loud but just enough that I felt my seat vibrate. Within seconds, everyone stopped talking and returned to their positions. Service then concluded as it normally would.

"We still think it is so. It preserves the original meaning of the text. Do you not understand Latin?"

"No. They don't mandatorily teach Latin anymore in my world."

"Quite a shame. The verse used was 3 Corinthians 3:24 in case if you wish to look it up."

"3 Corinthians? But, it isn't part of the Bible. Does that book even exist?"

"Not part of the Bible? Exist? I'm afraid I don't understand. Can I have a look at your Bible?"

"Here."

Arthur took my Bible from my hand. He appeared stunned to see its small size, but even more so after he began reading.

"What the…why is it in English? Why are the letters this small? Here's the contents table, and...Where is the Book of Enoch, the Book of Esdras, the Gospel of Thomas, and all the other books? [Closes book] Who made this heretical piece of...King James?!"

Arthur looked completely dumbfounded after only reading the contents table. He sat on my bed and put the book aside.

"What's wrong?"

"Here, compare yours with mine."

Arthur's Bible was written completely in Latin and is more than double the thickness of my King James Bible. It was evidently made by a printing press, yet they were using the Gothic script instead of the regular Latin letters, and they still used the long S symbol in it. Unlike usual medieval texts, there were no paints or pictures on the capital letters present on the paper.

"What has happened to the Church? Why did they let your monarch guide you to heresy? I don't mind the translation, but if you omit the other books, then..."

"Didn't the Pope establish 66 primary books and Deutero-canon already?"

"The Pope? Oh, you mean the Patriarch of Rome. Yes, I remember now. Western Europe follows him and him alone. However, we wizards do not follow such organization. At least, no longer. Not since that time."

"What do you mean?"

"It should be a story for another time. Now, I still have questions. If the Pope was the only authority to standardize Bibles, why did this King James get his name in print?"

"The English church split from Rome in 1533. And, I'm not sure if you already know, England, Scotland, and Wales have merged their kingdoms."

"I may need to look into this further. Hang on. 1533?!"

"Is something wrong?"

"I remember that year from my history class. That was the year the purges reached England!"

"What purges?"

"The witch hunts. Persecutions of the thousands, done by the millions."

"Just to get a little perspective, can you tell me how the wizard persecutions start?"

Arthur paced for a moment, taking off his cloak and placing it on the table. He then sat on the bed and said: "This will be a long tale, Platt. Try not to sleep.

Now, if I recall my history lessons, the problems began in 1486 in the year of our Lord. Back then, there was a crazy monk from the Holy Roman Empire who wrote a book titled the Malleus Maleficarum. The book condemned all acts of magic and those who practiced them were regarded as agents of the Devil, when that actually was far from the truth. Yes, I must admit, there are some wizards who rely on demons to do their bidding, but they comprise a minuscule minority even before the purges.

I have previously mentioned that our church is different than yours, but we still have some of our priests in the Catholic Church. Some have risen up to become cardinals within the conclave, usually installed through the help of kingdoms and monastic orders in your world. They do not number much, but they do have enough voice to influence the Pope.

That said, back in 1486, when the book got out, we moved quickly against it. We managed to convince Pope Innocent VIII to immediately ban it on the grounds of it being nonsense, and so he did. We thought our troubles were over, but then in 1517, something completely unthinkable happened. Another crazy monk from the Holy Roman Empire defied the Pope and attacked his teachings, even going as far as calling him a heretic, and radically altered the course of our history. His movement, known as the Reformation, was a mortal blow to Papal authority."

"Unthinkable? Hasn't there been open opposition to the Pope before? Like John Hus or William Tyndale?"

"No, it wasn't unthinkable in that regard. We know that there is and always will be opposition to the Pope. What was unthinkable is the magnitude of its success. Within years, well over half of the Holy Roman Empire stood in opposition to Rome. In those regions, books banned by the Pope sold faster than fire, including the Malleus Maleficarum. This book, combined with the poor education prevalent among the peasantry, raised a generation of very zealous and very misguided witch hunters.

They spared none. Good or evil, all were put to death. You need to understand this: Most wizards merely harness the power of nature to do their bidding and have never thought to use demons at all, which does lie in accordance with the Bible. Some have actively worked in the muggle world to benefit the local population. Some have even been given titles of nobility with their own lands to rule. Within months, it all broke down. We were dragged out in our sleep, beaten with anything they can get their hands on, then burned alive, beheaded, or crucified.

Most wizards in the Holy Roman Empire then fled and sought refuge in other countries. As the witch hunters spread into Catholic countries, our cardinals convinced Pope Julius III and Pius IV to create the Jesuit order against the Protestants. However, it became our own downfall. The Jesuits answered only to the Pope, and so when Pope Sixtus V ordered them to hunt down wizards, they did exactly so. As I said yesterday, they did more damage to us than any other group.

There were some wizards in the Holy Roman Empire who decided to stay. The main difference is, they did not stay in the muggle world, but instead they made a copy of the muggle world and built a barrier separating the muggle world and the wizard world. At first, they number little, but once the Jesuits turned on us their numbers surged. Some still tried to flee across the Atlantic, but even there things weren't safe. Those who decided to stay in the muggle world must renounce magic forever or be killed, which is a very difficult choice if you have been a wizard from birth. Finally, in 1666, we ratified the Treaty of Salem, forbidding all contact between muggles and wizards. We even went as far as removing every trace of our existence, altering memories and history books, making it look like we were nothing more than a legend. It was a drastic measure, but we had no other choice."

"Couldn't you just fight back?"

"Not all problems are to be solved with violence, Platt. We are all human, first and foremost. I admit, there are those who do plot your downfall, but the prevailing thought is that we would isolate ourselves long enough until you are wise enough to accept us once more. Even in our isolation, time and again we send informers into your world to try to learn of your society, and when the time is right we shall return. That day will someday arrive, but I don't think I'll live to see it."

The wizards appear to be a very noble society. Amidst all bloodshed they did not retaliate, but instead found a peaceful workaround. From Arthur's tone, I can see that this self-imposed segregation is hard for them, but considering the events of the time, it may be for the best.

"Were you taught muggle history in your schools?"

"No. Everything we learned was wizard history from 1666 onward. However, my father said that back in 1914, you muggles and your leaders were fighting in a great war which lasted until 1945. There was a 20-year truce between 1918 and 1938, but the second round of fighting was even worse."

That must be the World Wars.

"Platt, are you still listening?"

"Yes. Please continue."

"Maybe the incense is still in your head. Alright, now, regarding the second war, I remembered hearing phrases like "Rain of Fire, Lightning War, Iron Storm," and things like that. From what I predict, it seems that you muggles have learned to use the skies as a new theatre of war, as we have centuries ago."

"How many people died during this Great War? According to what you know, that is…"

"They say 200 million people died. Half of the death toll was caused by a man-made plague, originating from Spain, which was far deadlier than the Black Death. On the next phase, it is said that 2000 million people will die"

It seems that Arthur has only heard the term "Spanish Flu" once and pulled a random conclusion.

"Next phase?"

"The War of Armageddon, of course. Certainly you have learned it. The kings of the World arrayed against the army of God, ad diem magnum Dei omnipotentis. They will surround the Holy City, but fire will rain from the skies and vanquish them all."

Not exactly the answer I was hoping for, at all.

"Now, you mentioned a bit regarding good and evil wizards earlier. Can you elaborate on that?"

"That was rather misleading if I must say. We may know that there is good and evil, but the line between them is nearly impossible to trace.

The primary boundary would be our scope of control. Based on Genesis 1:28 and Mark 16:17-18, we know that faith lies at the core of our abilities, and we have been given power over nature and God's creation on Earth but not beyond that. Therefore, our control would be limited to manipulation of the natural world and all that lies within. However, the world of the spirits, the great abyss of shadow, the veil of chaos dominated by the Prince of the Air, that is not to be touched.

Some fools did not heed these warnings. They overstepped their boundaries, traversing the hidden world, and making pacts with demonic forces in opposition to God. This has granted them exceptional powers, to cast spells which only do harm and no good at all, and in some severe cases, altered their physical bodies into a weapon most deadly. Remember my words, Platt. These accursed rascals are to deserve no mercy, both in this world and the next.

And now comes the difficult part.

There are some groups of wizards who do harness the powers of nature, but for evil deeds. On the smaller scale, we have thieves, robbers, miscreants, murderers and the like. On the larger scale, we have had some of those evil men ascend to positions of great power, throwing their lands into equally great chaos and perpetual war. As we speak, unrest brews in the Emerald Isle, threatening to overthrow the authority of the Great Council and the Ministry, but again, that is a story for another time. They are of lesser evil than the dark wizards who forge pacts with demons, but are otherwise still evil nonetheless.

Then there are elemental beings and elementalist wizards, who morph nature's powers into a sentience on par with that of a beast. Opinion over this matter is split. Some clergymen condemn them for blasphemy, as they have given life to something that had none before, without any divine authority to do so. Their argument was that they had been given control of nature, and that their acts did not involve entities from the spirit world.

An even more troubling matter is regarding ghosts, the spirit and soul of humans who have yet to renounce their mission in this world. Most wizards are neutral on this issue, but some do vehemently oppose their presence and their "usage" to assist in various tasks. I remember one friend whose parents dropped him out of the Hogwarts academy because they had ghosts to reside within every house. Here in this place, we don't use ghosts. Not because we are opposed to them, but because it will be troublesome if an undying creature knows of our clandestine operations.

And then there is the part-blood. Some humans have a lineage of breed tainted by those not of their kind. They are human, but not completely. Could the partial seed of man grant them eligibility for salvation through the Blood? This question lies at the core of many clerical debates. They may be part-dwarf, part-giant, part-beast, or they may not be completely, alive, for lack of a better word. Most Abrahamic religions denounce this, as their existence implies an act already forbidden in Leviticus 18:23, apart from a few sects. But, if they were to spawn from a magical curse, then it is fine. There are some professors in Hogwarts who are of this kind.

And lastly, the dark-blood. Human in soul, demonic in spirit, and in some cases an abomination in body. Vampires, werewolves, ghouls, those which, for centuries, are regarded to have been cursed by God Himself. They have an unparalleled lifespan of thousands of years, with numerous powers but also numerous weaknesses too. Arguments about their nature have been ongoing for the last 3000 years, with different religions, sects, and even congregations having differing opinions. Despite that, they are very rare. We have some working here but I doubt you will see them as they are usually sent on the most dangerous missions."

"What's your opinion about them?"

"The dark-blood? You ask very pointed questions, Platt. In my personal opinion... Well, let me start here. I am sure we both believe that humans are created in the image of God, redeemed through the death of Jesus Christ, and are thus eligible to join Him when His Kingdom comes. Now, these dark-blood, despite their nature, are still partially human. If so, it is possible that their human hypostasis can be 'split' upon their deaths, and saved too. Therefore, not only will I accept them, but I personally will go the extra mile to assist them in overcoming their evils."

"Good men like you are hard to find, Arthur."

"Look, Platt, I just don't want anyone else to suffer like, well, um... nevermind. I think I should get going."

"Where to?"

"I need to reconvene with the other commanders. It's a wizard thing, you probably wouldn't understand. Lunch today will be muggle foods so it should be fine for you."

"Will I be leaving soon?"

"Soon? I can't make any promises, Platt. I'll do what I can, but in the meantime, you need to wait."

After saying that, Arthur left the room again.

With all honesty, I am getting bored being confined into this place. I haven't seen my family in days and they have not heard of me either. If Arthur and the others insist on keeping me here, I may need to plan and find my own way out.

'

28 June 1987, 12:53

Arthur was right about the food. Today, I got some brown trout, potatoes, and chicory leaves. It does make me recall that time I got lost wandering in the woods near the Tama river, where I had to fish for some trout with natural tools. Sometimes I wish to return to a more simple life, where you don't need to spend your days working for money, only to spend it all away later. Does money really make us happy? I find that the more I have, the more insecure I feel, fearing that everything will all collapse.

These wizards, despite their oddities, they seem pretty happy with the way they lived. Far happier than the faces of people in London. Part of me wants to return to my family and friends, but another part just wants to stay here and start everything over. Maybe one day I'll even bring my family here.

Why am I writing this?

This isn't good. I need to snap back to reality. I need to make plans to get out of here.

xxxxx

(This page appears to have been ripped out of the journal)

3-5-West-8. I'm at the 8th room, on the west wing of the 5th floor, probably. Those stairs do go quite a long way. But, what does 3 stand for? The blockhouse number? Yesterday Gareth did mention something about a blockhouse. That means there are at least 2 more blockhouses somewhere. Assuming that they are of equal size, and assuming the rooms are full, that would mean that there are around 900 wizards in this place. I couldn't just walk out the door, but downstairs, there may be some sort of laundry room where the wizards wash their clothes. Either way, I will need a disguise.

Assuming I do escape, I need the general layout of this castrum. The church is somewhere on the northwest of this blockhouse, and we need to walk through a stone path there, lit with torches. However, there were also other paths leading elsewhere. These stone paths must be avoided if I am to remain undetected, but that means I need my own light source to navigate through the darkness of the cave. That oil lamp may come in handy, as the oil will likely never run out. I may also need to find or make a map, and mark out secluded positions where they will not try to find me.

Then, assuming I do manage to get out, where do I go next? Arthur mentioned a village earlier, a full day's march, which means that if I attempt escape at dawn I would reach the village by nightfall. There, I need to hide somewhere. Can the locals be trusted? More importantly, how will I need to introduce myself? I then need to take the train, which will likely require some tickets that I need to buy. Or, I can just jump on the train somewhere. Maybe. The train wasn't really fast. However, where are the tracks? I lack the necessary information to make plans at this stage. When Arthur comes back, I need to bring up a conversation that will give me more information about the train. Hopefully he will not suspect anything.

3 milestones of escape: escape the blockhouse, escape the cave, escape the wizard world. All must be planned as one and executed swiftly.

xxxxx

'

28 June 1987, 15:41

By some form of miracle, I found a secret passageway in this base, inside the toilets. On one of the mirrors, I saw some sort of white cloth which appeared to be part of a quilt, and upon closer inspection, I found that there was a stairway behind the mirror. It was pretty dark inside, so I took my oil lamp as a light source. I'll also bring this book and pen to write down anything interesting.

The passageway was made out of carved stone in some places and wood on other places. There were also ladders, lifts, hooks and ropes. Sometimes, I would also see chandeliers or unlit torches lining the walls, or reinforced wooden doors which are locked. The structure appeared well-maintained, with virtually no sign of damage.

'

28 June 1987, 15:53

I found what seems to be a shaft within the passage. Here, I can see ladders and nets affixed to the walls, along with a large platform at the bottom attached to ropes. It appears that it was used to carry heavy objects to the upper floors, but what kind of objects? Also, it appears that from here, I can access every floor of the blockhouse. This will speed up my explorations.

Near the ladder, there was a small chamber with no door. Inside, I found a weighted basket tied to a belt, which will remain pretty much stable no matter how the wearer moves, unless tilted over 90 degrees. The basket has a black base, which felt like velvet and was cold to the touch. When I try to tilt it, I can hear sounds of water or some other form of fluid on the bottom side, hidden under the velvet, but the basket was much heavier than I first thought.

Carefully, I placed my book inside the basket and held the oil lamp tightly, and descended down the ladder. The basket, surprisingly, keeps correcting itself to the direction of the bottom of the shaft, as if it was pulled by a giant magnet. I'm beginning to think that the fluid inside the basket isn't water, or perhaps it isn't even a fluid to begin with.

'

28 June 1987, 16:18

After wandering around for some time, I have got the basic layout of this place. The blockhouse appears to be built like a four-leaf clover. However, the wizards appear to only reside in the west, north, and south wings. The centre and east wing is reserved for other uses. For example, the tavern that I visited yesterday was located in the east wing. On the fourth floor, I saw another tavern, along with a room for some form of plant research, an aviary, and a large reading room which does look somewhat like a cinema or theatre. Could there be a library here somewhere?

'

28 June 1987, 16:40

As I have expected, there was a library here, but the size was larger than what I imagined. It is located underground, and I can see numerous shelves filled with books or scrolls. Most of them are empty, some are half full, and some have been filled all the way. I can also see several desks where the wizards, composed chiefly of women, are writing on more scrolls, and I can occasionally see flying books or pieces of paper, flapping around like a bird. The environment looks like the interior of a medieval cathedral, with tapestries and painted walls, along with wood carved with more Celtic patterns. This may be a good place to check later on.

'

28 June 1987, 16:55

I managed to find Arthur through the use of the secret passage. I first went to some sort of storehouse some floors beneath the ground floor, descending through multiple ladders, where I took an unused cloak. Then, I made my way up the ladder, where I saw Arthur walking down the hallway. I followed him through the halls, walking through numerous corridors in the passageway to keep up. Finally, he went inside some form of reading room similar to the one on the fourth floor. Inside, there were 2 other wizards, reading a wizard newspaper.

"Well, that took a while, Trelawney," said the one on the left. He looked a bit like James, but older by around 10 years.

*sigh* "You know how tedious those sessions can be, Jacob," replied Arthur.

"So, has there been any new information, commander?" asked the one on the right. He looked like he was around 30 years old, and had a somewhat round face. His hair was short and had a dark red colour.

"No, nothing new, Andrew. We still do not have our marching orders."

They both then realigned their chairs to face Arthur, and Arthur also took a chair to sit down. Or, more appropriately, he pulled the chair towards himself from the upper part of the room with his wand.

"Right, Andrew. Before I forget, please say thanks to Mowbray for me."

"This was for yesterday's rescue, wasn't it?"

"Yes. We've got him already."

"What was the target like?"

"Appearance or personality?"

"Both."

"Well, he's a bit short, and his face was slightly round like yours. Only, his nose is slightly bigger and his eyes are closer together. He does look a bit muscular too."

"A bit muscular?" asked Jacob. "I heard rumours from the other wizards that he gave James a trashing. Ol' James, if you remember, was part of the quidditch team back in the academy and won second place in the regional caber tossing event 6 years ago, and managed to qualify for the finals for 10 years in a row. That's no easy feat."

"Jacob, you may need to revisit your sources," said Andrew. "The wizard James fought yesterday didn't fight fair. He hurled an iron fireball which fragmented into grape-shot. Now, word has spread that he isn't quite as human as we may have first thought, which does raise questions as to how he was captured in the first place."

"Andrew has a point, Arthur," added Jacob. "How the bloody hell did the death eaters manage to capture a demon? More appropriately, why do they need to capture such a creature? It would be equally troubling for them as it is for us."

"Well, he seemed very restrained for a demon. He did not have any compulsion to fight and is very cooperative so far, making no attempt at escape yet."

"No attempt to escape, you claim? He's probably toying with you. Trying to get your trust, while scheming our downfall. Dark-blood are not to be trusted, Trelawney. Don't you remember what happened to your son?"

Upon hearing that, Arthur immediately stood up and stared on Jacob.

"Jacob Eason*, I don't think the bad blood between our clans need continue, don't you agree? I suggest that you do not rub salt on old wounds."

*can also likely be written as Isone or Aison. I couldn't really make out Scottish names due to my American upbringing.

Hearing so, Jacob responded with a laugh. He then followed with: "Trelawney, clans don't matter no more. Whoever we were then, we are now one and unbroken. I do pity your son, but it was..."

"...nothing more than an accident caused by childish tomfoolery. Now, that's enough, Jacob."

"I warn you, Trelawney. You may want to check on that wizard you saved. What if he escapes?"

Andrew then pointed at Jacob, and said with a lower tone: "Why are you always such a pessimist? Do you doubt our ability of keeping him here? We have a permanent garrison of over 500 wizards and a staff of over 1000 more. In addition, this fortress has very limited entrances and exits. Apart from the heavily guarded entrances, the only feasible way of accessing this castrum is either through the underground river or the observatory. There is also the tunnels and catacombs under the church, but that route is reserved for the clergymen. Assuming that he does escape from his quarters, we can always block the few avenues of escape he can go through, and do a sweep across the entire grounds."

Thanks for the tip, Andrew.

"Assuming he escapes, yes. But, something in this entire story doesn't add up. Master Langston also had his suspicions. What if, the death eaters merely pretended to capture him, knowing that we would rescue him and bring him here?"

"Jacob, you may be on to something," said Andrew.

"That is a possibility, but I do not have enough evidence of it at the moment."

"Ah, pragmatic as always," said Jacob. "Very well, I understand. But, I need you to understand this. My fear isn't baseless. With each passing day the war escalates and we couldn't risk losing Ireland as we did Russia."

Could this be related to the Russia issue Arthur spoke about?

"I understand, Jacob."

"Very well then."

Jacob and Andrew then threw their newspapers up in the air. Instead of falling, the papers begin flying away like a bird, and stored themselves back on the bookcase.

"We need to depart again. Tomorrow we're heading to Ulster, and then, Wexford," said Jacob.

"I can't believe such a small island would give us so much trouble," added Andrew.

After they both left, Arthur picked up a scroll which appeared to be a map. However, as I was already tired after all that exploring, I decided to return back to my room. I nearly got lost inside the tunnels, but eventually I did manage to reach the shaft, and from there I went back to the fifth floor.

'

28 June 1987, 19:12

Additions to the plan:

3 possible secret exits from the base: Underground river, church tunnels, observatory. The underground river is undesirable due to lengthy travel time, which may get me caught again. The church tunnels are reserved for the clergy, and it may be difficult to blend in considering their elaborate clothing. This leaves one alternative, which is the observatory.

Estimated 2000 wizards in this place, but size of base itself has not yet been determined, so the distribution of wizards per area is still unknown. This also means I need to get a wizard cloak no matter what, as staying hidden from 2000 people is too big of a hassle. I may also need to find a map, and the library seems to be a good place to start the search.

Oddly enough, dinner has not yet arrived. It would usually arrive a few minutes after 6. If dinner doesn't come at 8, I'll just eat a pack of biscuits and be done with the day.

'

29 June 1987, 07:13

Dinner wasn't the only thing not present. Earlier this morning, I spent quite a while waiting for breakfast to arrive, but it also didn't come. I think it would be better if I began looking for a food source in here, and take some for myself if tonight's dinner isn't delivered too. But first, I need to make sure that I know where Arthur would be.

Or, an alternative approach would be to divert Arthur's attention long enough that I may use the window of time provided to return to my room. I have several oil lamps here, so maybe I can do something with them.

'

29 June 1987, 07:26

I took several pieces of straw from the bed and tied them up into one long strand. I tied them up in bundles of four to make sure they don't easily come off when someone walks through them. I then attached one end of the strand to the oil lamp and left the other one loose, with a length of about 2.5 meters. Once complete, I pegged one end of the straw near the landing newel and affixed it to the wood by tying it up. I then extended the strand to the other newel and held it in place by using one of my shoes as a counterweight. Then, I bent the strand upwards and laced it on one of the wooden beams, taking care to ensure the strand is out of sight. Finally, I placed the oil lamp in a slanted position, so that a force tugging on the strand will cause the lamp to fall.

The good thing about these wizard stairs is that there is only one landing, so I only need to make one tripwire. When someone snags on this, the oil lamp will fall and spill, spreading some fire on the floor. The wizards should be able to use their magic to contain the fire, and it will give me enough time to return to my room. This is borderline criminal in the muggle world, but I'm sure these wizards are more than capable of putting it out. After all, Arthur did say that the blockhouse has survived numerous major attacks.

The last thing I need is if the wizards have a sprinkler system that can douse fires quickly.

'

29 June 1987, 08:31

Again, when I was exploring, I found Arthur by accident. I was looking for the storage room when I heard Arthur's voice. He was in the second floor reading room, playing chess with another wizard. Arthur was playing black, and his opponent white. His opponent looked slightly older than he is, with a long, black beard and wearing what looks like a Spanish soldier's outfit during the Age of Exploration. I can see that they are still in their opening moves, with a good number of pieces still in their initial positions.

"And... jump. Your turn."

"Your king's not going to be safe in that castle, Henry. I'll see to that."

Interestingly, the chess pieces in the wizard world can move on their own. The chess pieces resemble little statues and are made of stone. I'm too far away to see if they have any facial expression, but they do seem to have some degree of sentience.

"Queen's pawn one forward."

"One forward? Very well then. King's bishop to queen-bishop six. Kill that knight!"

The bishop advanced and pulled out a mace. Then, with a heavy swing, the knight was knocked off his horse and crumbled into pieces. This is both amazing and unsettling at the same time.

"I've got your king in check, Arthur."

*laughs* "Henry, that was quite a suicidal move. Pawn of queen's knight advance to queen-bishop three. I won't have my own line compromised."

The pawn faced sideways and pulled out his sword. He did a somersault and drove his sword through the bishop's head and neck. The bishop crumbled into pieces a second later.

"Was that knight worth your bishop, Henry?"

"He was a member of the Round Table. It had to be done."

*sigh* "Enough with these allusions already. It quickly gets old when everyone does it."

"Queen's pawn two forward. Anyway, what happened to James yesterday?"

"King's knight to king five, eliminate the pawn. Yesterday, he got into a fight with a guest, but it was too much than what he can stomach."

The knight charged on horseback and impaled the pawn with a lance, causing the piece to shatter.

"Well, you always were the aggressive type, Arthur. It seems like I need to open the gates. King's rook to king one. Now, you know of what they say about that guest, right? There have been rumours regarding him being not entirely human."

There is evidently some slight differences between the king's pieces and the queen's pieces. I can see that the queen's knight has less armour than the king's knight, but I couldn't make out the differences of the other pieces from where I am observing.

"Pawn of king's bishop two forward. Yes, I am well aware of the rumours, but I can assure you that he is not a spy."

"Queen's pawn to king five, kill the enemy pawn. I hope you are sure about that, and also sure that you want to leave your knight where I have control."

Both pawns locked swords for a moment, then the white pawn took some dust from the remains of the previous white pawn killed three moves prior. When the black pawn tried to rub it off his eyes, the white pawn stabbed him through the body, possibly at the heart. This chess game is by far the most interesting one I have ever seen.

"Yes, I'm firmly sure on both. Queen's pawn one forward. Now, has the high commander sent the plans?"

"King's knight to queen four. The plans? No, not yet."

"King's bishop to queen-bishop four. Dammit! They were supposed to be ready by spring!"

"Pawn of queen's bishop one forward. Well, maybe they just need more time."

"Just need more time?! Look. From the way I see it, high command is too defensive. *Turns to chess board* Like this. King's rook fortify king. *Looks back at Henry* See? Just like this black king, hiding inside his castle, deaf to all the cries of his subjects who are dying in the field!"

The black king turned towards Arthur, as if he was offended.

"Looks like he's upset. Pawn of king's bishop two forward."

*sigh* "Queen to king one. We should use muggle chess boards next time."

"Queen's bishop to king three. Arthur, just be a bit more patient."

"King's bishop to queen-knight three. Look, it's just, we've been waiting too long for this."

"Queen's knight to queen two. Honestly speaking, you're normally not like this, Arthur. Is something wrong? What happened to your usual calm demeanour?"

"Queen's bishop to queen-knight two. Of course there is! Those accursed interloping spies have poisoned our food supplies! Months of labour gone in a day!"

So that's why no food was delivered yesterday. But, spies? What is going on?

"Queen's knight to king-bishop three. I understand what you mean. However, that could have gone worse. If that food was ingested yesterday, we would all be severely ailed."

"Where are you taking that knight? It's been galloping around in your homeland like a bloody dunce. Are you trying to collect taxes from those poor squires, perchance? Queen's rook to queen one."

The white knight and some of the pawns began looking at Arthur too.

"Queen to queen-bishop two. Arthur, you really should calm down. Do you need some water? We should stop playing."

"No, that's not necessary. Pawn of queen's knight one forward. Sorry. It's just that I feel greatly angered. These spies are free to do as they wish here and we can't do anything about it."

"King's knight to queen-knight three. Indeed. They possess skills far above what we normally encounter, and their methods appear foreign. They aren't Irish nor English, or even Danelaw. It is as if they came from the continent."

"Pawn of queen's knight one forward. The continent you say? We keep losing ground again in the continent, being forced to retreat and retreat again. Our forces keep being defeated but they always find victory over our forces when their turn to attack comes, even in the winter."

"Yes, retreat. King's knight to queen four. Wait. I didn't mean that! Arthur, you cheeky bastard! Now my knight is back where it was last turn!"

"And once we retreat, we keep retreating until our front line is cut off into pockets, as if we were routed across the entire line. Pawn of queen's bishop two forward. See, I control centre, and you must pull back to avoid further losses."

"Wait here. Yes, I think you're right. King's knight to king two."

"Queen to queen-bishop three. The same thing is happening in Russia. Stronghold after stronghold pried off our hands. Sumy, Pskov, and recently Bryansk."

"Queen's rook to queen one. Bryansk you say? Are you sure about that?"

"Pawn of king's rook one forward. Yes. After years of holding out, Bryansk has fallen, and Kursk may follow shortly."

"K...King's rook to king-bishop one. My, this is terrible indeed."

"King to king-rook one. Yes, and if Kursk falls, tell me, what will possibly happen?"

"That means the Donetsk River and the Carpathian Mountains will be exposed! We will need to deploy more forces to that sector! King to king-rook one."

*sigh* "Mirroring my moves? Very well. Queen to queen-knight three."

"King's knight to king-knight one."

"Now, Mr. Ogilvy. Take a good look at where your knight is. He has returned to his starting square within the king's castle. That's where we will be too, back at our starting square, if we do not strike back soon. Queen to king-rook four."

"You're right. We need to attack soon and meet them on the field. King's knight to king-rook three."

"Not so fast. What if they want us to do so? What if it was a feint? What if they have another goal in mind? Queen's pawn one forward."

"Pawn of queen's bishop kill pawn at queen four. Then, we just need to find out their targets."

I will likely never get bored of these pieces killing each other. They seem to know where to strike and deal a quick death, like professional soldiers.

"An eye for an eye, Henry. Pawn of queen's bishop kill pawn at queen five. Do you have any guesses as to where they may assail?"

"King's bishop kill pawn at queen four. In my opinion, I think that Riga is a suitable target. It's a massive port city which supplies the entire central front. Doros in Taurica can also be a target, as it supplies the southern front and controls the Black Sea."

"Queen's bishop kill bishop at queen five. Indeed. If we were to lose it, we will not be able to supply our troops and they need to retreat to positions in Polonia or Thracia, where the supply line can be better maintained."

"Queen's rook kill bishop at queen four. If something like that happens, our flanks will be exposed, and we will need to give a lot of ground to reform our defences."

The rook piece was a cannon. It fired a cannonball towards the bishop and left a crater on the debris below. Then, it moves after it has fired.

"Queen's rook kill rook at queen five. Speaking of ground, we've been fighting for control over this particular square with a lot of pieces for the last few turns."

"Queen's knight kill rook at queen four. You're right, Arthur, and we can expect the enemy to do the same on the land they took. They will contest us for every yard and fathom."

The dust and rubble on queen-four, or queen-five from black's perspective, had piled up so high that it now spreads to adjacent squares. The white knight on that square got off his horse and appeared to kneel in prayer, throwing some dust on his head.

"We therefore need to remain vigilant. Watch for enemy traps. Outsmart them with our cunning. Perhaps, even, some will need to be sacrificed for a greater victory. Queen to king-rook six."

"Queen to king-rook six? Are you mad?! Look at this! Your queen is all alone with no one to cover her square! Well, too late for regrets, Arthur. Pawn of king's knight kill queen at king-rook six."

"Remember what I said a few seconds ago, Henry? You need to remain vigilant. Advancing your pawn has exposed your line, wide open for this to happen: King's knight to king-bishop seven. And, check. If you let down your guard, you may lead your squad into enemy traps like this."

"What the?! Dammit! Uh, king to king-knight one."

"And then you all end up dead. King's knight to king-rook six. Checkmate."

Henry appeared flustered. He sat motionless staring at the chess board, in complete disbelief as to how he could have lost. The white king then took off his crown and walked to the other side of the board, presenting it to the black king.

"Well, Trelawney, you snake. Now I see what you did. You used the queen as a bait."

"Thank you for the compliment. However, for the record, I was from Gryffindor House."

"I assume Langston has taught you to play this well."

"No, I was self-taught. In my opinion, Langston's too defensive. It is possible to win against him but usually not before fifty turns. He likes to wear down his opponents until they are too tired to think. Have you ordered a lockdown in the base?"

"Yes. No-one without proper credentials are to enter or exit this castrum. However, I fear that blocking all exits have thinned out the wizards on patrol to undesirable levels. We focused so much on the entrances that we are neglecting our interior."

"Has there been a call for reinforcements to uproot the spies?"

"Everyone's busy in Ireland. The first batch will not arrive until 3 days, from the south."

"Relying on the English again. Well, I guess we have no choice in the matter anyway."

"I need to go on patrol again. Stay safe, Arthur. Rats lurk in the darkness."

"You too, Henry."

Henry then took a white, spherical stone and placed it on his end of the chess table, into a semicircle cavity behind the chess board. Arthur also took a black spherical stone and placed it into the cavity on his end too. I then heard the faint sound of a trumpet, and all the rubble restructured itself into individual pieces. They then marched back into their starting positions, and stood completely still.

"Right. Before I forget, you have a letter from Sybil."

"Did she mention any new leads?"

"No, I'm afraid the trail's still cold."

"Very well, I'll check the post building, then maybe on that 'demon' guest. But please, stop spreading baseless rumours."

"You've been working on that case since the academy years. That's nearly 25 years ago, and still you never stop."

"I'll never give up hope. We will finish where our grandfather failed. I'll see you soon enough, Henry."

After saying so, both of them left the room.

…

I now know that I have about a few hours to go to find the storage for the cloaks. However, what if I'm looking in the wrong place? A blockhouse doesn't seem to be a place where you would store cloaks and robes in. Then again, judging from its size, I have only explored one-third of the entire blockhouse, and I have not yet headed upstairs. I might as well head there now.

However, the Russia issue appears to be a bigger problem than Ireland. The wizards seem to be embroiled in a great conflict. Riga is on the Baltic coast, and Doros is probably Greek territory, which would likely mean the scope of conflict is at least as wide as the Soviet borders. They have attacked before, but they keep failing and their enemies keep winning. Recently, Bryansk fell to their enemies, and now they risk retreating to Thrace, which is likely Yugoslavia today. However, who are they fighting? And what did Jacob mean by "We can't lose Ireland like we did Russia"?

'

29 June 1987, 09:26

I think Arthur has slipped a four-leaf clover into my bed or something, else I would not be this lucky. Not only have I found the cloak I need to move around, but I also found another exit on the east wing of the seventh floor. Near the exit, there was a room that stored several sets of equipment in crates. All those crates were incredibly dusty so no-one would probably realize a missing set. The exit appears to be connected to a sky bridge that leads elsewhere, but I currently have no plans to explore it just yet. I would rather return to my room and dismantle the trap, and wait for Arthur to come first.

The crate wasn't too heavy, but it was difficult to move inside the limited space inside the passageway. I've stored the crate near the entrance to the passage in the restrooms. I'll open it after lunch.


	5. Shadows Within The Walls

29 June 1987, 12:30

Arthur came to visit with a tray filled with lunch. Unlike the usual silverware, the plates were made of polished stone and were cool to the touch. Lunch was some sort of salad mixed with berries, but they tasted salty, including the berries.

"Did something happen yesterday?"

"We have a little problem with spies. We think they are affiliated with the group which took you captive on the train."

"Why do they want me so badly?"

"I, don't know yet. That's why you need to cooperate with me on this, and provide information of what may have happened in the days before the kidnapping. However, our top priority right now is to find the spies before they do too much damage. Until all the spies are found, this base will remain on lockdown. In 3 days, help will arrive from the Tyne and we will root them out."

As I was eating, Arthur kicked down one of the stools.

"Those bastards fight dirty! Months of labour, done by hundreds of peasants, gone in a single day! Tell me, Platt, if you had devoted your life's work in the fields, how would you feel when you see that it was all for nothing? When I find the spymaster behind all this, I'll make him wish he was never even born!"

Arthur tried to grab hold of my arms, but I managed to step back.

"I know, Arthur. Just, calm down."

*sigh* "Sorry, Platt. Can you do me a favour? If you find the spy, kill him on sight."

"Well, that's rather impossible. You see, with me being confined up here, and the spy operating down there, there's not much I can do."

"True, but that doesn't remove the possibility of him using this place as a hiding spot."

"There is another problem. I don't practice magic, and I don't have a weapon. Attacking a spy who has been trained so well that he can sneak into your food stores and poison them without being found sounds very close to suicide to me."

"Oh, right. We need to think of something else."

I resumed eating for a moment, then I remembered that I need to ask Arthur about the village. I selected my questions carefully to not arouse suspicion.

"Speaking of food, how big are your farms?"

"Our farms? Right, Platt. You should first know that our plants take only weeks to mature and can be harvested in a month. Therefore, the wide, open farmland system that you muggles practice is not practiced here. Our underground farms are located in something we call a daugh-chamber, or dabhach-chambre as the Highlanders call it. Each chamber contains land slightly larger than one virgate."

"Wait, how big is one virgate?"

"Let me guess. They have also changed their measurements in the muggle world, right? Very well, do you know how big an acre is?

"An acre is the area of a rectangle whose length is one furlong and whose width is 22 yards."

"Very good. It makes for a very long rectangle, like the binds of a book. Now, think of those acres as books and make two stacks of them, each 15 books in height. How many acres is that?"

"30 acres."

"Good. That is what we call a virgate, although, our farms are generally around 33-36 acres when summed up. Usually, inside those chambers, there aren't just multiple rows of stubble, but also multiple grounds."

"Grounds?"

"Grounds. You know, like the floors of a building. So there's a first ground, second ground, and third ground. You need a ladder to access each one, and they each have their own waterways."

I believe terraces would be a better word here.

"Is it enough to feed the entire base?"

"No, not unless rationed. The rest of our food is delivered from outside."

"What is the closest village from here?"

"Hawick. Only 10 Roman miles southwest-by-west, but you need to traverse heavy forest, craggy paths, and fend off wild animals. Before all that you will need to reach the exit of the cave which would take nearly 1 hour on foot, follow by a risky descent using a rope down a few dozen fathoms off a cliff. I highly discourage anyone walking there in groups of less than four unless if you have a pet bear. Of course, if you fly, it will only take a few minutes."

"That seems to be a massive struggle to bring the food here."

"Not really. We can use the horses for that. They are slower than broomsticks but they get the job done."

"I assume they can fly?"

"Yes, they can. Some fly faster than others, but I think we've strayed from the primary focus of the conversation already so I'll tell you more when I have the time."

In the muggle world, Hawick is a large town with many roads leading to it. Is Hawick smaller in the wizard world?

"You mentioned that it will take 1 hour to reach the exit of this base. How big is this place?"

"Half of a wapentake, I think. Maybe about a carucate or two smaller. I need to check the maps in the library to get the exact value."

"What do those units mean?"

"You remember one virgate is 30 acres, right? A carucate is 4 virgates, which puts it at 120 acres. However, a wapentake is based on a hide, which is an obsolete unit of measure dating back to the time when we still made regular contact with muggles. It is a variable size of land depending on how arable it is, or more exactly, how much landmass is needed to feed one muggle family for a year. The range is usually somewhere between 50-250 acres. A wapentake, also called a hundred, ward, cantref, herad, or Centum Anglia, depending on where you're from, is equal to 100 hides.

Now, if I recall correctly, the province of Tweed has a hide of 110 acres due to its difficult mountainous terrain. This puts the size of this place to 5500 acres, although this value is likely smaller." *sigh* "We really should create a standard system of measures. It's such a hassle to remember all these numbers."

5500 acres is 8.59 sq. miles, which would be about 22.26 sq. kilometres. Cutting it off by 2 carucates (240 acres) still gives a value of 21.28 sq. kilometres. That's roughly the size of Camden. It is very likely true that it would take an hour to reach the exit.

"You seem to be lost in thought, Platt."

"As you said before, these measures are foreign to me, so I needed some time to think."

"Very well, but I also want to ask you several things regarding the muggle world. We rarely have a guest like you here."

The next segment is long and tedious to write in full, so I'll just write about interesting bits I come across:

\- Wizards usually go to the academy for 7 years, plus an extra few years for apprenticeship into a specific trade if necessary.

"Apprenticeship into this organization takes 1 year."

\- Broomstick riding wasn't popularized until around 650 AD. Carpet riding emerged 50 years after. Before, wizards would fly on larger devices like stone monoliths, chariots, flying horses, and even miniature flying rafts.

"Those miniature rafts are funny but useful. It was the best we had before more advanced enchanting methods were discovered."

\- The wizard world is governed by ministries with an aristocratic/meritocratic system. Above those ministries is a political entity called the Great Council, which is equivalent to the UN. Each ministry is further divided into dioceses, provinces, and further lower level local divisions.

"For us, the division goes: Diocese/kingdom, province/earldom, county, principality/barony, shire, lathe/town, wapentake/ward, village, hamlet, hide. It's different for every diocese."

\- Spells are exhausting to cast repeatedly. A wizard has to take care not to pass out from overworking.

"This is also why we use muggle weapons too. My favourite is a dirk. Of course, it's not the family heirloom dirk. That one's too precious to use."

\- There is one castrum for every county to act as a command base, but other structures can be built.

"We have numerous outposts and a few camps, and we coordinate with the locals to build fortifications in their villages. Plenty of brigands lurk in the forests so they will need a lot of help."

Around this time, I asked Arthur about his family, but he did not give a straight answer. He said that he is 35 years old, which comes as a surprise as all this time I thought he was older.

"The team you met at the tavern was my father's team. When my father was promoted in 1985, I inherited his position and his team. That's why Langston keeps calling me 'Young Commander.' "

It turns out that Arthur is married and has had several children, but one of them "died in an unfortunate accident." I can almost certainly say that he doesn't want me to know everything.

"I should've seen it coming. He looked like my grandfather."

"Your grandfather?"

"Yes. Donovan Trelawney. Ministry agent for over 30 years, lieutenant quartermaster, captain-of-hundred of crossbows, defender of Selkirk and the Ettrick Water, and the paternal grandfather I never knew. He was murdered in 1948 following an investigation of another murder in Hogwarts academy in 1944. Many say he got too close to the truth."

"Could you tell me more about this?"

"It is a long tale to tell. Maybe tonight would be a better time to talk about it."

In addition to my own questions, I also explained to Arthur about life in the muggle world. I told him mostly about my field of work, how we have made great strides in sanitation, medicine, and operational procedures. I also told him about daily life, about cars, lamps, and cassettes, as well as allowing him to try one of my clothes. He said it felt light and soft, but doesn't seem to be well-suited for heavy work. After nearly one full hour, we both decided to call it off.

"Thank you for today, Platt. I would need to take my leave now. Stay safe."

"Very well, Arthur, see you later."

And thanks for all that juicy information.

'

29 June 1987, 12:46

This entry is dedicated for brainstorming a way out of here.

This base is about the size of Camden, which furthers my argument that I would need a disguise and a map. I already have a wizard cloak stored in the secret passage, but I still need a map. More exactly, I would require two maps. One would be a map of the base, and another would be a map of the surrounding regions, preferably one showing the layout of road and rail.

Then again, would wizards need roads?

Hawick is south-east from here, 10 Roman miles away, which I can assume to be 16 kilometres. Moving through the forest like that without a compass would be too difficult. Furthermore, merely by the mention of flying horses, I can deduce that there are possibly creatures in the forest that I have never seen before. Frankly, I wouldn't be surprised if dragons were to reside there too, and if all our myths are correct, I would not want to fight that behemoth even if I had a gun.

There is, however, another option. Food supplies keep being delivered here. If I can somehow find the delivery schedules, I may be able to escape with them. Furthermore, with the food supplies poisoned, this place would require great amounts of food, which means there is a greater chance for me to sneak out provided that I can use this window of opportunity.

On second thought, it may be a bad idea. They have secured all the exits and will inspect every delivery.

This leaves the observatory as the only exit. Now, by theory, a military installation the size of Camden should have flying horses of its own, as part of a mounted regiment. It may be a long shot, but it may be better to do a grand theft of a flying horse and ride my way out of the observatory dome. Then, once I manage to get out, I will trail behind the supply convoy to reach another location where I can lay low. I may need to cross into another province, likely south to Northumberland.

No, that would be too predictable. I cannot go south, as Arthur knows that I come from London. Maybe I need to head to Galloway instead, then to Ireland, Wales, and then Birmingham to London. Then again, this route also has its risks. Since the first day I got here I know that something is wrong in Ireland, putting it on nearly equal with the "Russia issue." If I fly to Ireland, I may be flying straight to a warzone.

Whatever the case, I need to find out where the maps are stored in. I would better move now.

'

29 June 1987, 14:31

I managed to enter the library without incident, leaving the secret passage at the second basement floor. However, this place is much larger than what I imagined. I had assumed that the library was of equal size of the blockhouse, but it appears as if it is at least a quarter as big as the base itself, if this map I got is to be trusted. The library wasn't just located on basement 2 of blockhouse 3, but instead it was located on basement 2 of all the blockhouses. In other words, using the library, I can travel to other blockhouses without exiting from the front door. Luckily, the wizards have put signposts everywhere in the library, so I can easily find my way to and fro.

I found a map of the blockhouse among a heap of scrolls, beneath a bookcase around 10m tall, in the "maps" segment of the library. It was printed on some form of scroll which I initially thought to be unremarkable, but when I sat down and spread it on the table, I found that the ink moves. It reacts to the motion of the fingers, showing not only the layout of the library, but also the name and position of every individual as a group of footprints. For reasons I do not know, my footprints were present but my name was not. Maybe the names had to be registered earlier before they can show up here.

The map was slightly larger than a newsprint. Touching on the stairway will either take you upstairs or downstairs in the map, and touching on various doors will also allow you to see the information about the rooms. On the bottom-right corner was a small picture of a bird watching an ant on a branch. Pressing on the bird will zoom the map out, while pressing on the ant zooms the map in.

I played around with the map a little bit, and managed to obtain information about the surrounding buildings too. I was right about the blockhouses being deep within the base. To get to the exit of the cave, I would need to pass the church, then head north to the western farms, then west to the armoury, then north again to some sort of inner wall structure. From there, there are three gates where I can exit, all of which are currently heavily fortified.

Alternatively, the observatory appears to be located on the east side of the base, near the aforementioned inner wall. To get there, I will first need to pass blockhouse 4, then head to the eastern farms, the post-room, the rune-house, and finally some form of storage room. It also appears that the door into the observatory is locked, so I will need to find some way to get it open.

It would appear that I will be spending a lot more time here than I initially estimated. Well, better to over-prepare than underprepare.

'

29 June 1987, 15:55

After inspecting the map some more, I found where Arthur is again. It appears that aside from showing the names of everyone, the map also shows the relative rank of the person in question. Those with lower ranks only had their names written with regular cursive on a plain rectangular frame, but higher ranked agents had their name frames better decorated. For example, Arthur's name was written with blue ink instead of black and the frames were a set of 2 rectangles with several strokes in between.

Arthur is currently located on blockhouse 1, which appears to house many high-rank agents. He is on the third floor reading room, talking to someone named Agatha Macpherson. She appears to be of slightly higher rank as there is an underline beneath her name, but aside from that, her name marker looks the same as Arthur's. On the opposite wing, I can see someone named Henry Trelawney who had an even more elaborate name marker than both of them, with both the name and the frame having colours of its own. I can safely assume that this is Arthur's father.

Suddenly, I saw Langston moving up the stairs to the room. Although Langston's name marker was plain, his name was underlined twice. Furthermore, I found that the name markers can also be interacted with. When I touched Langston's name, it displayed his portrait, age, years of experience, rank, titles, honours, and "history," along with other categories written in Latin which I do not yet know. Perhaps there is a way to change the language into English.

I wonder if they will notice if I brought this map with me. From the looks of it, these wizards keep bringing scrolls in and out anyway, and I don't see a single librarian in sight. They should not notice one missing map.

I think it is best that I stop playing around. I better head back to my room.

'

29 June 1987, 20:02

After I returned from the passage, I hid the map inside the crate where I got the cloak. Then, I found that the crate had a false bottom. Beneath the crate were nine silver knives, roughly the size of a Japanese kunai, and the carvings are different than the regular Celtic patterns prevalent within the base. It had more circles than lines, and there appears to be a lack of symmetry on the patterns. I took two of them and hid them in the cloak to be used when needed.

I spent more hours thinking on a way to get out of here until about 6 PM, when dinner arrived. The food this time was a big bowl of salty soup. It would be more appropriate to say that the ingredients are salty while the water tasted brackish. They were clearly trying to water it down but it turned out worse. It reminded me of the first time I tried to cook in Boy Scout training. Arthur arrived shortly after, bringing a watermelon slice. Compared to the soup, the melon tasted sweet, and it helped clear my taste buds.

"I know that look on your face, Platt. Many wizards have voiced the same complaint. The food is salty."

"I can see that."

"Since our food stores are poisoned, we had to eat the food from our emergency storage, which are usually pickled and salted. To remedy this, I have issued sweet fruits to go along with the daily rations."

"Well, I guess I should thank you for that. Has there been any progress on the investigation?"

"Yes, actually. We know that there are at least ten spies, and that there is a possible traitor within this base helping them."

"This may be an odd request, Arthur, but, can you provide me a weapon? I don't want to be completely helpless if I get attacked."

"It is against the laws of this castrum to provide weapons to strangers, especially muggles. Besides, every wizard is expected to carry their own weapon. However, I think I can make other arrangements for you."

Arthur gave me a map which is very similar to the one in the library. He explained to me on how to use it, but I already figured out most of them on my own. What I didn't manage to find out was that you need to press down on the leaf on the branch at the bottom-right image for 3 seconds to change the map into the language you can comprehend. Also, it turns out the underlines beneath a wizard's name signify their seniority. One underline indicates over 30 years of service, and two underlines indicate over 50 years.

"What is this ink?"

"It's a magic ink used for painting. With this, your pictures can come to life, or at least very close to it."

"That sounds interesting."

"Yes, and this is for you."

Arthur pulled a moderate-sized box from his bag. Inside it were two inkwells and a brush, with 12 pieces of paper inside.

"This is normally used by teachers and professors to explain topics too tedious to be explained with words, or as a tool for us to entertain kids. The blank inkwell contains the magic ink, and the white inkwell contains the ink remover. Also, you can join up the pieces of paper to form a larger image."

"How do you draw on this?"

"Toss the ink on the paper, focus on the image you want, and wipe the papers with the brush. The ink will conform to your thoughts, but only if you focus."

I started simple and drew a picture of a cat. As the brush touched the ink, it slowly changes shape into a cat too. In addition, the cat can move and make meowing sounds, acting similarly to how a real cat would. Then, I tried to draw a bowl of pet food to see if it would react, but the cat doesn't seem interested in eating it.

"A good start," commented Arthur.

I then took a peek inside the white inkwell. I then found that it was not an ink, but rather some sort of sparkling dust, like glitter. When I dipped the brush into the white inkwell, the regular ink crawled out of the white bottle and into the black bottle like a fast-moving shadow. When I used it on the cat, it immediately returned into a black blob of ink, which then returned to the black inkwell too.

"Platt, usually, we do not use the brush to take the powder. You can just pour the contents on the papers."

"Now, how do I remove this thing from the brush?"

"It will return to the inkwell on its own soon enough."

"What would happen if I mix the contents of the black inkwell with the white one?"

"They switch bottles."

"Does it mean that this map can be altered with the powder too?"

"No, it's been affixed to the paper. If you want to remove them, you would need an alcohol-based fluid. The white inkwell only works on loose, live ink."

"Can I apply this to any medium?"

"Come on, Platt. You're a bit too old to do that. Well, I guess you can, under the condition that you clean up all the stains by yourself."

Suddenly, I saw a slight white glow on the brush and saw the powder fly back into the white inkwell.

"See? It's back. Pixie dust is a versatile material. Have fun and play around with it. I'll see you again tomorrow."

Will applying this on my feet help me to fly?

'

29 June 1987, 23:20

At first I started out simple, drawing plants and animals, and sometimes the sceneries of the places I have visited. I drew the coast of Normandy, which I visited with my family in 1963. I drew the Grand Canyon, which I visited on the high school field trip in 1966. I drew the port of Yokohama, where I went to during vacation time in 1971. I also drew sceneries of places found on the National Geographic magazines I subscribed to, such as the Himalayas, the Amazon Rainforest, Lake Victoria, and the Great Barrier Reef. All of which came alive with stunning detail, covering all 12 pieces of paper.

Then, I decided to experiment further. I drew a picture of my kids with the ink, and to my surprise, they are seemingly sentient, interacting with the environment within the painting. They were talking to me as if I had took them on vacation, with happiness and excitement similar to Christmas morning. I talked to them for some time, saying how much I wanted to return back to London. They reacted by saying that they miss me too, and that they will wait for my return. It nearly drove me to tears. I even began thinking on whether or not I should erase them, which I finally did a few minutes ago.

"Must I be erased too, dad? I don't want to go!"

…

These, they're TOO alive. I just don't feel like writing anymore. I should end this entry here.

'

30 June 1987, 08:18

After breakfast, Arthur relocated me from the fifth floor to the "underground blockhouse," which is located near the library. He said that if the spies were from the same group that kidnapped me, then it would be best if I were to stay hidden. He put my travel bag and carpet bag into a small burlap sack and told me to put on the cloak I wore to church last Sunday.

"Let's get you somewhere safe, Platt."

I put on the cloak and followed Arthur downstairs and to the basement levels. Then, we turned left near the library entrance, into a wine cellar. The smell of alcohol in there was strong and somewhat intoxicating. Then, Arthur opened one of the barrels, revealing another corridor leading downstairs. It was dark and dimly lit, with only a few glowing stones spread intermittently over a wide distance.

"Follow me and don't get lost, Platt. Lumos…"

Arthur's wand began emitting a slight white glow. I followed him through a corridor, past a wide spiral staircase leading down, and into a door. Inside, I found myself in a wide and brightly lit hallway. This hallway had torches lining the walls, each burning with a blue flame. The walls were decorated with a lambent red paint above a dark wood base, contrasting the torches on the walls. The floor was made of white, polished marble, similar to old Roman buildings. I also saw numerous pieces of armour walking around patrolling the hallway.

"They're all empty. Don't bother talking to them."

I was given room III, located near the exit doors. It appears that these rooms were made for VIP guests. This room was larger than my previous room, and was more comfortable. The lighting was still provided by oil lamps, but the room was larger and so is the bed, covered with a blanket seemingly made of silk. The table was larger than my family dinner table, with 4 chairs on each side, all made of veneered hardwood. The ceiling was placed at least 4 meters up and had an unlit chandelier, and the walls were covered in glimmering stones.

"Welcome to our deep chambers. This place is usually used by alchemists who want to study something in seclusion, grimoire writers, strategists, and other kinds of people who do not wish to share their secrets, even to fellow wizards. The code for your room is Aleph-one-three. The toilets are at the end of the corridor, as usual."

"Okay then."

Arthur took out my belongings: My carpet bag, my travel bag, and to my surprise, the crate I took from the seventh floor.

"I know what happened yesterday. Next time, try to learn to cover your tracks better."

At that point, I was too stunned to speak.

"This base has a strict policy of not lending weapons to strangers, but there are no rules that say you couldn't take some for yourself. And to count this as theft, well, you didn't exactly remove these items out of the fortress, and we are also in a state of crisis with at least a dozen spies roaming about, so, I guess it doesn't really count.

Wait, I had just noticed something."

Arthur pulled out a map of the base and looked increasingly troubled as he shifted through the floors.

"Platt, can I borrow your magic paints?"

Arthur took the paint and brush and also a wide scroll about 1.5m in length. He then spread it wide on the floor, and drew something akin to a spider web listing a number of names. Then, he took the map and drew several lines from the map to the scroll, and circled a number of rooms. Finally, he crossed out several rooms he circled until only a few rooms are left.

"Now I see that worm's holes! Our own secret passageways have been exposed!"

"The one behind the toilets?"

"No, not that one! We have four networks of secret passages, each detached from the other. The one you found and used only links the blockhouses to the west and north inner parts of the fortress, I mean, castrum. Well, we actually have five, but the fifth is reserved for the clergy and so it doesn't count. The spies probably found the one leading to the farms and storehouses.

Platt, normally this would be against our regular conduct, but you show some promise. Want to help me catch some rats?"

"You mean the spies? Remember when I told you that I had no..."

"It doesn't matter! If things go bad for me, you run and find help."

"Do you have a plan?"

"My father and master Langston would have thought of something by now."

"Will you promise me that I will be returned to my family after this is over?"

Arthur stared at the map for some time following my question. The room then became gripped in a tense silence. I can tell that Arthur felt upset, but at the same time I also feel a sense of sadness.

"Family, you say? Irving Platt, your return will only hasten their doom," said Arthur with glaring eyes. "That's what happened to my father, Henry. The murderer who killed my grandfather Donovan did not stop there. For the sake of his own safety, Henry was forced to abandon his trade and join this organization in 1948."

"Then can you take my family here?"

Again, Arthur stared at the map. He griped his cape and clenched his fists, and walked around the room for a moment. Then, he returned to see me and said, "I, I just, Platt, there is something else you need to know. I'll tell you everything if you help me catch one of the spies."

"And why should I help you do that when you can tell me everything here and now?"

"Because, even the walls have ears."

Suddenly, Arthur pulled out a dirk and held it against my neck. He then whispered to my ear.

"Why the bloody hell are you so stone-headed?! Please! Platt, trust me on this! I'm only trying to help. Stronger forces are at work here, threatening to undo your life as they did mine. I have seen my family destroyed. I have seen my father's sorrow. By the time I was born, I no longer had a choice in the world. I do not want your life to turn as bad as mine. I would prefer to kill you here and now, but, you're too, I," *sigh* "There's nothing I can do right now. Not like this."

Arthur stood up again and gave me back the crate.

"If you wish to follow me, meet me at the library at 1 Ante Meridiem. Forget about lunch. We depart immediately."

"To w…oomph"

Before I had the chance to talk, Arthur covered my mouth.

"There is no time to explain. Now, tell me, do you trust me?"

I gave a slight nod.

"I pray that it was sincere, Platt. I'll see you then. But remember, this is your last chance. This is our last chance. We need to make it count."

…

What have I got myself into?

'

30 June 1987, 16:48

I have been taking a nap for the past few hours and had just decided to write the entry now. I am currently feeling unwell in the stomach.

As promised, I met Arthur at 1 Ante Meridiem, or 11 AM in muggle time. He then began addressing me as "Gregory," and told me to follow him outside, so I did. We went to blockhouse 4, out the door on the ground floor, and moved to a small building which appears to be a guard post of some sort. There, a squad of around 20 wizards had gathered, and I was introduced to them in Latin. Arthur then gave further commands in Latin, and they all moved out.

We headed to the underground farms Arthur mentioned earlier. Arthur kept speaking in Latin, but from the looks of it he keeps splitting up the squads. He would send his men away to other sections, and slowly, we began heading further and further away from the farms. Finally, we reached some sort of warehouse, and there were 3 of us left.

"Forgive me, Eustace. Stupefy!"

All of a sudden, Arthur shot a red bolt to the other wizard, knocking him unconscious.

"Sonorus."

Arthur held the tip of his wand like a microphone, and announced something in Latin. Then, he did it again in English: "Attention! Attention! This is Arthur speaking! Encounter hath been made and we are running due east! Three interlopers appear to be running to the inner wall! Hie forth and pursue those damned misfits!" However, instead of following them, Arthur took me somewhere else, to the base of a high tower. We climbed a good way up, and there, Arthur began to explain.

"This is high enough. I can see them if they were to return. Now, Platt, are you ready for this?"

"Yes."

"Very well, Platt. The one who kidnapped you on the train, the one who brought you into this, it wasn't the death eaters. It was me."

At the time, I became so shocked at the revelation that I just sat silent.

"Platt, I know what you're thinking, but please listen. Last week, I received an order from the High Commander, Theodore Walcott. I was preparing for a mission to Bergen, but suddenly, Walcott told me to head to London instead, to muggle London. They gave me a photo of you, and told me to bring you here by any means necessary.

When I reached London, I was informed of your house by another operative, who then told me that you will be heading to the station tomorrow morning. We went together to the station in his car. We arrived too late and the train you were supposed to be on had departed, but it also appears that you were delayed too, so we still had a chance.

I opened a bottle of anger gas and caused a fight near the pub you were in. Then, amidst the confusion, my associate knocked you on the head with a bottle and I casted a sleeping spell on you, just strong enough to bring you to the wizard world and tie you up, but weak enough so that you would wake up in an hour. The next part was riskier. I had to coordinate with a fellow commander, Alexander Mowbray, and make it look like the train was under attack. Then, I jumped with you down the river.

Walcott didn't stop there. Under his direct orders, he sent James and William to attack you a few days ago. Again, I don't know what he intends to do. I was told to watch at the back and to only intervene once they're done. Well, they're done, all right, and they were done pretty good. Just, not quite in the way we expected. After that incident, Walcott told me to stop all further interactions with you while he thinks of something, besides the regular visits to act as a facade.

"That leaves one question, why me, of all people?"

"From the very start, I had the exact question in mind. That is what I intend to find out too, and the sooner the better. Tonight, I will confront Walcott, and demand the truth. You can use the secret passage to eavesdrop on our conversation."

"Is the Russia issue and this spy attack a farce too?"

"No. This one is not a farce. The entire base will not voluntarily eat their emergency supplies, and that patrol unit would not have been formed had it not been for the spies. In addition, we have lost some men hunting them down too. Our involvement in Ireland must have drawn the ire of the evil wizards throughout the land, especially the death eaters."

"Then, why are you telling me all this? Why the sudden change in loyalty?"

"Because, it's against my views of justice. I joined this organization because I believe in justice and upholding the right, while also working to capture my grandfather's murderer. But this incident, I feel that it has crossed the line. I know, there has been many minor transgressions that we have to do for the greater good, but all of them had a strong reasoning behind it and all sides have consented by the time the plan is put into motion. But to kidnap a muggle for no clear reason at all, and to hold him for an indefinite amount of time? Especially without his consent? That doesn't seem just to me.

You talk a lot about your family, Platt. You must really love them. Perhaps, even, you may miss them. I don't know how medi, I mean, doctors operate in the muggle world, but it does appear that you don't see your family often. Is that right?"

I gave a slight nod.

"Yes, I see what you mean. To put your life on the line to protect others, away from your home and family, thinking that the next day you see them may very well be your last. As such, you try to cherish every opportunity you get to be with them, before death does you part far sooner than you will it."

Arthur had struck a chord with that one.

"We're not too much different, Platt. I came to realize that over time. However, Walcott doesn't care about that. He just wants you, for something. You see, the reason I brought you down to the underground blockhouse was not to protect you from the spies, but also to keep you away from the hobgoblins we have roaming around, cleaning the floors and delivering food. They also serve as informants to Walcott, and the only place they may not enter were those underground rooms. Furthermore, if they knew I was helping you, they would tell Walcott everything. That is why I brought you out here."

"I know, and thanks for that, but what if tonight's negotiations break down?"

"I'll find another way to get you out. I don't have a plan yet, but I will find a way. Now, I suggest we get going to the inner wall, before the others suspect something."

…

As we were walking, Arthur added, "Another thing, Platt. The scene in the pub, the one with Langston calling me a liar, that was a farce too. We know China exists. One of our commanders here even came from China, and he would get pretty angry if we didn't pronounce his name with a certain tone. About the maps, in truth, we do update our maps with muggle maps, just not too frequently."

"Your act was pretty convincing."

"My act? No, Langston was the main actor there. That speech in Latin, it had no connection to the maps. He quoted a chapter from our Defence Against the Dark Arts textbook. And, your hands are actually pretty rough. And, his ability to speak in multiple languages is only partially true. He does speak multiple languages, but he can only say hello, goodbye, and thank you, or maybe count to ten. The phrases he uttered at you were Bible passages he memorized for the past few days."

"Langston appears to go very deep to put up a good act."

*chuckles* "Well, that old man's not as active as he used to be, so in the few occasions where he can have fun and get away with it, he uses it in the best way he can."

…

We reached the inner wall segment after about 30 minutes, where the rest of the squad Arthur sent was still on a wild goose chase with the few remaining sentries on the wall. Arthur used that sound amplification spell again and told them all to "shift posts." Immediately, they returned back to Arthur, who led the way back to the blockhouse. At the guard post, we swiftly broke away from the group, and Arthur slipped a piece of paper into my coat. He then told me to return to my room, and he walked off somewhere else. I returned to my room and laid down on the bed, completely exhausted and confounded.

The next thing I remember was waking up, and even then my head is still dizzy. I think I should read the paper Arthur gave earlier.

* * *

Platt,

I would like to open this letter with an apology to what happened in London. I know that you truly do love your family, as stipulated in our Saviour's teachings. As such, I bear a great feeling of guilt to remove you from them. I understand your plight and sorrow, which I can feel through the words you use and the questions you ask, and I find that we aren't too different after all.

Before this incident, I had always thought of muggles as inferior, which is still the prevailing thought in the wizard world. We thought you were nothing more than mindless barbarians constantly inventing new ways to kill each other. However, you have proven me wrong, if ever so slightly. There appears to still be good people in the muggle world, people who actually care for the good of humanity as a whole instead of only themselves.

Platt, if I may share my thoughts with you, I feel that something is amiss. Kidnapping you was a very odd move on behalf of the High Commander, and I personally vehemently object to this act. Between you and me, Platt, I should remark that Walcott has been acting strangely for the past few weeks. On the other hand, I am merely a soldier, a young, regular squad sergeant who merely inherited his father's team. I currently have no authority to oppose the High Commander (praefectus castrorum).

Despite that, I have decided to challenge this order. I may be going out of line, but I feel it justified as he has also went out of line to take you away and keep you as a hostage. I do admit that I will need some more leverage, so I will ask for help from my father Henry and Master Langston. We will confront Walcott tomorrow, so I suggest that you head to the secret passage on your own to scout ahead of time.

[I will not write the location of the passage as the letter had explicitly forbade me from disclosing it to anyone else. This was, in the letter's words, a secret to carry to the grave.]

One last thing, Platt. Once you have read this letter, dispose of it by eating it. Don't worry about poisoning, the paper is edible. This also doubles as your lunch.

* * *

The paper tasted sweet like honey-flavoured candy, but I got stomach cramps a few minutes after and had to spend a good amount of time in the restrooms afterwards. It felt as though I overdosed on laxative. By the time I was done, I had to crawl back to my room and climb to get on the bed.

'

30 June 1987, 16:55

I've successfully found a route to the High Commander's room. Unlike all the other passages which are interconnected, the passage leading to the room was singular and disconnected from most of the other passages. Furthermore, it was wider and taller than then all the other passages, big enough to fit a horse.

The high commander's office was large and grand, fit for a king. It had a large chair, almost resembling a throne, behind a large veneered table carved with great precision. The carvings also glow in different colours, which is hypnotic to look at. On the other side was a globe and an enormous square table abou meters in size, with chairs all around it. On the floor was a carpet, seemingly of Arabic origin, and the chandeliers on the ceiling appeared like a small Christmas tree adorned with glass. The room also smelled of incense, not like the one in the church, but more of a sage-like smoke. I can also see a cat sleeping near the fireplace, which was currently unlit, and I see that the door into this room was far larger than the regular doors of the base. There was another small door in the back, but the secret passages cannot take me there.

Tomorrow, Arthur plans to confront Walcott here. I hope nothing goes wrong.

'

1 July 1987, 09:04

Arthur came to visit early in the morning, bringing breakfast. It was some sort of mushroom soup, but the mushrooms were green and there was one vegetable which looked like a spinach but tasted somewhere in between a potato and a carrot. Langston was also with him.

"Is this edible?"

"This recipe was passed down from my great-grandmother, boy!" said Langston. "Normally I will not prepare this, but for you, I think it's warranted."

"Master, I think we should tell him the plan."

"Yes. Now, Mr. Platt, please read this."

* * *

I've never expected to see a muggle in a circumstance like this. Often times we help them out, erase their memory, and send them away. But this time, we kidnapped a muggle and gave him information and even a tour of our base. Something clearly isn't right with Walcott. We'll try to talk him out of it first, but if it fails, here's our backup plan.

We wizards have a potion called the Polyjuice potion, which allows you to transform into the target person for 2-12 hours depending on the ingredients used. Of course, when it wears off, we'll just drink another. In the event of negotiations breaking down, I will disguise myself as you for 4 days, 'doing some paperwork,' while Arthur 'takes a mission to Ireland' and sends you to Bergen, a major port in the Nordic Principalities with many good places to hide.

Then, after a 2 or 3-day voyage depending on the winds, you will lay low in Bergen for the next 7-12 days in an inn or something like that. You need to avoid all contact with Scottish and Irish fleets, maybe blend yourself in with the locals. Your blue eyes can help greatly. When the situation has cooled down, the old commander Henry will "take a mission to Ireland" too and get you on a ship to London. Considering the lack of wind during these summer months, I say it should take 3 days to reach London. Henry will then guide you to return to the muggle world, and remove your memory as usual. You should return by August 20 at the very worst.

* * *

"Are you fine with this?"

"Well, I don't have another choice to begin with, so I'll accept."

"It does appear that these spies are not the only ones casting a shadow within these walls. What do you think, young commander?"

"Herbert..."

"I mean, Commander Arthur?"

"Yes, it is very odd. Walcott is someone who would usually stick to his ideals."

"I'll need to convene with the Council of Grandmasters to discuss this once that muggle is back home. Now enough talk. We should prepare for tonight."

'

1 July 1987, 12:40

Lunch today was not bad. It was some sort of salad made of at least 7 plants: carrot, corn, blackberries, leek, cauliflower, and other vegetables which I could not name. However, these unknown vegetables actually taste better than the regular vegetables. Maybe it's because I never ate them, and the brain records the experience as something good.

Either way, tonight we need to be ready. I'll wait at the secret passage at 5 PM, and we shall see if this works.

'

1 July 1987, 16:51

Very soon, it will be time to go. I'll bring along my journal book and map, and see how it turns out.

It does feel good knowing that there are some people out there coming to help me like this. Going back at August 20 is a better compromise than not coming home at all. Despite that, I still need to remain cautious and vigilant. I must not be recaptured again.


	6. The High Commander

1 July 1987, 19:30

"High Commander Walcott, we would like to have a word with you."

"Agreed. Please come inside."

A few minutes before 6, Arthur, Henry, and Master Langston entered Walcott's room. All of them were wearing formal wizard clothing as if they are having an audience with a king. They had all the traditional story book attributes, from the pointed hat to the long shoes, but their robe wasn't all black. Instead, it looked more like a flight signal flag. On top was the flag of Scotland. Under that was a coat-of-arms, likely of the place of origin. I can see that Henry and Arthur had the same coat-of-arms, but Langston had a different one. Under that was a 3x3 square with multiple colours which I assumed was used to distinguish between roles, and under that was a number which use I do not yet know. Maybe it's like the airplane numbers in an air wing to help arrange formation.

"Ah, the Trelawney family, and Master Langston too. It's odd to see you three together like this. Please, take off your hats and place them on the stand."

Henry Trelawney didn't look too far different from Arthur. Had they been the same age it would be quite difficult to tell them apart. On the other hand, Walcott was an old man, perhaps slightly resembling Clint Eastwood with a long beard in terms of looks, and is probably around 50-60 years old.

Arthur stepped forward and said, "Yes, it's about the..."

"Not so fast, Arthur," said Walcott. "Urgent priorities first. How goes the spy hunt?"

"We have captured five. Others are still hard at work and reinforcements are arriving soon."

"I expected more, but I believe it can't really be helped considering how few wizards we have left on patrol."

"It could have gone worse," said Henry. "We could all be poisoned by now."

"That's correct, but I believe it can be traced to one factor, Henry. Negligence of duty. All of this would not have happened if the guards were more vigilant. Must we wait for an emergency to happen to straighten things up? Prevention is equally important, and the guards should notice that by now!"

"Wasn't there a traitor helping them?" asked Langston. "You can have the Landsknechts, Varangian Guard, and even the Jewish Legion guarding this place, but all that would not be of much use if there is a traitor within the ranks."

"Do you have evidence, Master Langston?"

"I have a plethora of evidence to back it up, but that is not our main point of the conversation. We wish to inquire you about something else."

"Regarding what?"

"This."

Langston placed an ornate wooden box on top of the table, decorated with a bit of metal. The insides were split into twelve compartments. There was a vial in eleven of them, but one compartment was empty.

"Spirit of Hartshorn?"

"Yes. Last week, you gave a mission to young Trelawney to procure supplies in London. I don't think an easy task to procure supplies warrants the use of a vial like so."

Arthur sat still and remained quiet.

"I'm afraid I don't understand, master. A lost vial can imply many things. What are you accusing me of?"

"Agent extraction. Spirit of Hartshorn of this potency is normally used to revive wizards who have been afflicted by a sleeping spell. How does Arthur know that there is someone that needs to be revived in London?"

"Fine, you got me on that one. Arthur didn't go to London to procure supplies. He went there to rescue another wizard operative from France. He was the one who fought with James, and is currently residing in the fifth floor of blockhouse 3."

"Is that truly so? Then, can you explain this?"

Langston pulled out a small piece of metal. It turned out to be the metal from the deodorant can I threw.

"An iron fireball, Gareth said. I believe that is false. I used Archimedes' test on this particular flake and found it to be much lighter than iron if both were of the same size. I believe this isn't ferum, but alumina salt."

"And what does that prove?"

"Now take a look at this."

Langston pulled out a set of papers.

"I've been testing this metal on my own for the past few days. The purity of this metal is well over anything we can create. This shard may well be the purest alumina salt in the entire world."

"I do not understand where you are leading me with this conversation."

"Very well, I'll ask you straight. Walcott, is this guest a muggle?"

Walcott stared silently at Langston. His cat began circling around Langston's feet.

"Cold feet, now, have we, master?"

Langston appears unfazed. He kept staring sharply at Walcott, as if demanding an explanation. The tense situation lasted for about a minute, with both sides silently staring at each other. Slowly, he smirked, then he giggled, chuckled, chortled, and finally gave a full thundering laugh which echoed across the room. Once he calmed down, he said: "Langston! All these years and you still haven't lost your sense of humour yet. Who would've thought you would go this far for a prank! A muggle, you say? It would make more sense to say if he were a demon, or if he came from the moon!"

Seeing this, Henry too began to laugh, and then he said, "You're not much different, High Commander. However, unlike Master Langston, you put up a shallow act!" with a stern voice like that of a courtroom judge. Everyone immediately stopped laughing following Henry's statement. I felt the mood within the room abruptly shift from calm to tense again.

"Henry, what are you implying?" said Walcott in a more serious tone.

"With all due respect, High Commander, I believe you are lying."

"And, where lies my lie, exactly? All this time I've been catering to your statements as you lead the discussion. Now, pray tell, do you have proof that I know something else?"

"If I did not, I would not be so bold. Here is the evidence you asked for."

Henry presented a folded note. As he opened it, I saw that a table had been drawn on it.

"This note is part of an entry in our archives stating that one of the boats in the underground river have been moved. You seem to have knowledge of it from the start, seeing that you were the one who personally made this entry. What I find strange is that you did not send anyone to investigate."

"That would be redundant! It was brought in for maintenance, nothing more. You may inspect the engineer's report for that."

Henry began to chuckle again, and he continued with, "Like I said, High Commander. You put up a shallow act. You don't seem to understand the situation at hand here. I had checked the maintenance records and I found that the boat in question was brought in for regular maintenance a mere three weeks ago. If there truly was a need for an urgent maintenance, did it not imply that it had been used prior?"

Walcott stood up and walked near the fireplace, his cat following slowly behind.

"I didn't think it would need to come to this, but there doesn't seem to be another choice. Fine. I'll tell the truth this time. That informant was carrying something Arthur was not allowed to see. A letter for me, from Normandy, France. It was a warning. Our allies in Normandy have detected spies heading to England, and they assumed Scotland would be targeted too. Unfortunately, the informant was captured in London. He managed to escape, but he asked me to create a ruse. He would flee to the muggle world, disguise himself as a muggle, and wait in a tavern by one of the platforms."

Walcott's lies show he's getting desperate.

"A warning letter? It would seem odd that High Commander Sabourin would send a human courier to fly across The Channel just to deliver a warning," said Langston.

"He could not take a chance that the secret may be exposed."

"I am not convinced. A human courier for a warning letter is plain excessive. Why use a human when a pigeon or an owl would suffice? And maybe place a time-delayed fire curse on the letter so that it will destroy itself when opened with the wrong hands? Or, perhaps, was there anything else he was carrying?"

*sigh* "Matthew would kill me if he knew about this..."

From a distance, I can see that Walcott was twitching. He also appeared to be slightly slouched, all indications that he is getting nervous. Despite that, he kept his straight poker face, and his tone of speech had not changed at all.

"Yes, there was something else. He was carrying plans. Invasion plans, to be exact. We have orders from the Great Council to raise an expeditionary force and send them to Russia. The documents he was carrying detail our deployment sites, our plan of attack, our goals and targets, and our order of battle. That is why he had to travel in a more concealed manner."

"Can we see them?" asked Langston.

"See them? This information should still be a secret at this point. I had intended to divulge this 3 days before the attack but you sleuths have dug out the truth. And I must say, I'm very impressed. I feel like the future of this castrum and the Caledonia Front is secure with sharp people like you to carry the torch. Fine, I'll let you see them, but only under the conditions that you don't divulge this information to anyone."

Walcott pulled out an enormous scroll from beneath the table, and he walked to the square table by the fireplace where he spread the map open. It appears to be a map of Russia.

"As you all may have already known, there has been a large influx of allies from the Viking Principalities. Contrary to the prevalent thought of them helping in Ireland, they would actually be helping in our part of the grand invasion. We will first head to the port of Riga."

Walcott took a long, slender staff similar to a pool cue and pointed at Riga. There, it showed numerous bits of information, but I was too far away to make out the letters.

"Because tactical planning is still ongoing as we speak, I should just tell you the overall initial strategy. We'll attack with the English and Welsh, but the Irish will stay behind as their hands are full with the fight at home. Maybe some of the Welsh will stay too. Our first target would be Talinn, to secure a seaport in the Baltic and enable supplies to flow. Then, we head to Narva, and then to Petrograd. All of these must be done in one week, no more. Assuming General Jalonen does not run into any delays, we should reach Tikhvin by August.

Tikhvin will be our new base of operations for further attacks east. Our unit will be commanded to attack either Lake Onega or Lake Beloye, depending on what General Matthew wants. To be honest, I would prefer if we were to bypass the lakes as they pose no strategic value, but maybe it will be part of something greater. From there, we will head to the Dvina River, where the Scandinavians will split north to head to Arkhangelsk. We will create defensive positions on the river, and wait for supplies to catch up. The Dvina must be reached before September.

The last part is still obscure, as we have thus far been drawing on historical maps and archives, some dating back well over 100 years ago. Our objective still lies further west, but it is unclear on whether or not we will stop at the Ural Mountains or the Ob River. What is clear is that the terrain is harsh and unforgiving, and in addition to that the Russian winter would have already begun by that month. We are given time until November to reach the Ob river, but if that is no longer feasible we must at least break through the Urals.

The Ural Mountains are the key to this war. If the enemy fortifies their positions there then the war is as good as lost. The Russians say they have their own plans for the Urals, but seeing how badly they were beaten in the past few years I severely doubt their competence. We must assume that the Russians are not going to give us any help, other than acting as a diversion. Speed, stealth, and secrecy shall be paramount in the battle ahead.

Now, is that understood? Again, please do not tell this to anyone else. We still have a problem with spies here."

The three of them sat silently, staring at the map.

"Well, are you going to say anything?" asked Walcott.

Henry gave Arthur and Langston a pat in the back and stood up, saying, "Yes, I believe there is nothing more to be gained from this discussion. I am sure that there are still more affairs that you have been hiding but I think it will be better if we were to find out later on. We will take our leave now, High Commander."

"Are you implying that something is off with my story?"

"Off? High Commander, your story is like Swiss cheese," said Langston with a heavy Scottish accent. "Once someone decides to cut in and take a bite, they will find a lot of holes within. Let me rescind my earlier statement about a human courier being excessive. If the object is of that importance, why didn't Sabourin send more men, maybe even led by Commander Marais?"

"Well, that's…"

"I won't stand for any of your lies! Tell me the truth this time, son!"

"Master, that's enough," interrupted Arthur.

"I'll drag this issue to the other grandmasters! Just you wait! Once I..."

"Silencio!"

Henry shot a white bolt to Langston's face and effectively rendered him mute.

"Expellarimus!"

Walcott used a spell to disarm Henry, who staggered a few steps back as his wand was sent flying across the room.

"Henry, you seem to be getting senile. Have you forgotten? Our rules state that there is to be no use of magic when you are in my room, or this entire blockhouse in that matter, unless we are under attack or as a means of self-defence."

"My apologies, High Commander. Master Langston may get carried away otherwise and I do not have the heart to punch the old man in the back of his head."

Langston was visibly annoyed by Henry's statement.

"Very well. Be off before this escalates into a brawl!"

The three of them immediately left the room. Walcott then turned to his cat and said, "Bloody Highlanders..." before closing the map and storing it back into the table. I decided to return to my room as I do not think there is anything left to note.

'

2 July 1987, 10:22

Arthur brought me some breakfast, which was a large piece of bread that tasted like oranges. His father Henry also came to visit.

"Walcott's too good," said Henry.

"At lying?" I asked.

"Yes. We couldn't break him yesterday. He must have had it all rehearsed from the beginning."

"Well if he wasn't that good he wouldn't be our high commander," commented Arthur.

"So, is there another option?" I asked.

"Yes. Yesterday we operated under the pretence that both Langston and I do not know that you are a muggle. Today, Arthur here will go alone."

"Why is that? Arthur is of junior rank compared to you. Will he have enough leverage?"

"Of course he will. Langston had made it very clear to him that he would not be accepting any more nonsense."

"What will he try to achieve?"

"Answers. I know you are restless to leave, Platt, but the kidnapping of a muggle to further our own cause is unacceptable. We wish to understand what is truly happening right now."

"Think about this, Platt," said Arthur. "We had been ordered to cut contact with all muggles for over 300 years now. Suddenly, out of the blue, I was told to take a muggle here. Does it strike you as odd?"

Henry suddenly stood up from his chair, saying: "Wait, could it be that Walcott intends him to... No, that's impossible. It's too risky under these circumstances."

"To do what?" I asked.

"No, not yet, Platt. I need more proof. Son, we should get going now."

"Very well. Platt, we'll be hunting off spies. Meet me at the passage at 3 Post Meridiem. We have other things to discuss."

Arthur and Henry left the room.

I am beginning to doubt their sincerity in helping me, but I guess there is no other choice but to trust them. Especially if you're up against the top brass.

'

2 July 1987, 14:40

"Commander Arthur Trelawney, reporting!"

"Come inside."

I saw Arthur walk inside with less formal clothing. His clothes were still formal, but just less formal than earlier, without the pointed hat.

"Arthur! You're alone, I assume?"

"Yes, High Commander."

"Priorities first. Have we caught any more spies?"

"On the contrary, some appear to have escaped. Langston was right in the fact that there is a traitor."

"Can you elaborate?"

"The storehouses. We found the charm on the lock was broken, and five broomsticks were missing."

"That charm wasn't a particularly strong one. With a bit of time any wizard with some experience could break them."

"That's not all. The tracer stones have been detached."

"Impossible!"

Walcott stood up and slammed his hands on his desk, causing his cat to jump.

"My thoughts exactly, High Commander."

"Those stones can only be affixed and detached by means of a quartermaster officer's stone!"

"Quartermaster..."

"I know what you are thinking, but I believe this emergency takes precedence. What is it you want to say, Arthur? Make it quick."

"It's about the muggle."

"Master Langston's caught up to our little ruse. His experience in the field is unparalleled. Even if we erased his memory he has likely written everything down."

"Yes. We may need to take more severe measures."

"Like throwing him down the oubliette?"

"Not that severe!"

Walcott's cat flinched.

"At ease, commander Trelawney." *sigh* "Every single time I address you with that title I am always reminded of your late grandfather. It was very odd that my father died a few weeks before, also from unnatural causes."

"True, but unlike your father, my grandfather's murderer has yet to be caught."

"Your grandfather had a feeling that the culprit was still young. Assuming if the culprit was 40 at the time of the murder, he or she would still be about 80-something by now. You still have plenty of time."

40 is young? 80-something is plenty of time? How long can wizards live? That's decently above the average life expectancy in the UK even after we remove infant mortality from the count.

"Stop. I believe we have deviated far enough from the main point of the conversation."

"Yes. We were discussing the muggle. So, throwing him into the oubliette is out of the question, but you have moved him to the underground chambers, am I correct?"

"Yes, but it will only be a matter of time before Langston suspects something."

"What does your men currently know?"

"I introduced Platt as a wizard from a faraway land, the son of Portuguese traders in China who had went to Japan before heading west. However, after that fight with James, rumours started spreading that he isn't quite as human as he seems. This has led many to avoid him. Some have even suggested that he was the spymaster behind all the attacks, inserted like some form of Trojan horse who feeds them with information on where to attack."

"I've done my part in supressing the rumours. You must do your part to keep him safe."

"I understand, but what for?"

"Are you questioning orders, Trelawney?"

"Yes and no. I will still carry out your orders, but I demand to understand the motive of this act. You see, even I have become the target of slander. They consider me as a traitor for bringing the muggle in."

"Trelawney, I'm afraid I can't tell you that. I have sworn an oath of secrecy to them."

"Them? Are you implying that this wasn't your order?"

"Yes. I was not given the option to refuse. The person who gave that order was none other than the Grand Marshal himself."

"What?! Him?! D…Do you state the truth?!"

Arthur looked as though he had seen a ghost, all pale and shivering. It was worse than the time he took me to the tavern.

"Trelawney, you look a little pale. Are you hiding something?"

"No, High Commander. I am just in shock, that's all."

"Are you sure about that?"

Walcott stood up and pressed his hand on top of Arthur's forehead. He then clasped Arthur's right wrist.

"A fast heartbeat, a cool head, quick breathing, a slight stutter. Arthur, are you afraid of something?"

"No, High Commander. I was merely in shock, as I have said earlier."

"Do not worry, it is merely human to fear. However, allow me to ease your thoughts. Petrificus!"

Walcott shot a bolt from his wand which split into four, targeting all of Arthur's limbs.

"High Commander, what is the meaning of this?"

"You've crossed me too many times already, Arthur. You think I have been playing dumb? You think I did not know of the arrangements you have made with Master Langston?! The three of you have been conspiring to unravel our plans, and I will not allow this to continue!"

Suddenly, Walcott turned to the secret passage where I was hiding.

"I know you're there, muggle! Come out here before I make you!"

Cold sweat began running from my forehead, down my neck and into my clothes. I could not think straight at that time, and I just stood still in silence.

*sigh* "Well, you wouldn't know where to exit anyway. Confringo!"

A white bolt blew up the section of the wall I was hiding behind, exposing the passage to the room. My ears began to ring, and there was debris and dust everywhere. Immediately, I tried to run, but then I found that I was bleeding from the blast, including a severed artery at the shins which bled in pulses like a fountain. Furthermore, it appeared that some bits have cut relatively deep into my skin. I had trouble moving, and had to extend my arm to lean on the walls just to stand.

"Now look at you, bleeding all over and standing limp. Marcus! Lyle! Get over here!"

A few moments after saying so, two men dressed in full plate armour arrived. As they were wearing helmets, I could not see their faces, but one of them is slightly shorter than the other.

"High Commander, what had transpired here?"

"There's a bleeding rat over there. Seize him and sit him down on that chair."

I was too weak to fight back. They did not do anything to knock me down, but they merely carried me by the hands and feet. Slowly, the pain began to set in, and I began losing consciousness as everything faded to a blur.

"Curses! We're losing him! Marcus, your medicine vial, please. Lyle, get six other elite guards here, and report back to me once you have assembled."

"At once, High Commander," said both of them in unison. They then left the room, leaving only three of us behind. Walcott gave the medicine vial to me, and immediately the pain began to subside. I was still bleeding, but I could not feel anything. Walcott then pulled out a bottle of vinegar and a piece of cloth from under his table, and applied it to the wounds. I took both daggers from my inner pocket, but I saw Arthur shake his head, so I placed them back in.

"Don't you dare move a single muscle. I will not hesitate to foul you up if you try to escape again." Walcott then turned to Arthur and said, "Now, we're on equal ground."

"Equal ground? How is this equal?!"

"Let's assess the situation we have at hand. Earlier this morning, you have contrived of a scheme which I do not understand, but you fully do. Now, I have a scheme that you do not understand. Certainly you do not know what I am going to do with you, is that correct?"

Arthur merely sat silent.

"You may be wondering why I chose this muggle above all else. But, have you wondered why I chose you for the job? I have scores of sergeants and captains with far more experience than you, who are promoted through merit and not because of familial influence. I have scores of sergeants and captains who actually do frontal combat work, while you are merely overseer of the farms who would rarely see combat apart from the occasional skirmish against supply raiders. Yet, amongst all of them, I had to choose you for this job. Have you thought about that, boy?"

Arthur still remained silent.

"Hmm, maybe that muggle would know. Your name was Irving Platt, is that correct? Can you tell me what Arthur said to you during his visits? Did he, by any chance, tell you about his son?"

"Leave that matter out of this!" shouted Arthur, his face reddened with anger.

"Your anger only serves to confirm my earlier statement. You see-"

Before Walcott can finish his sentence, there was a knock on the door.

"Come inside!"

I heard the sound of metal clanking on the floor. As I turned to look back, I saw eight people in full plate armour. The earlier two guards still had my blood on their vambraces and breastplates.

"I assume you had wondered why I need your help so urgently. You may think that it has something to do with the spies, but I can assure you that this is an entirely different affair. You will divide into two groups, four each. One will go to Commander Henry Trelawney, and the other to Grandmaster Herbert Langston. Tell them that all their missions are cancelled and they will be barred from taking new ones for two weeks. Furthermore, they are not allowed to leave the inner battlements of this castrum until I say so. Disobedience means death, for them and for you too! I don't care that they are older or more experienced than you are. If they manage to escape, all your lives shall be for the life of them. ALL your lives. Understood? Now go!"

All the elite guards marched out the room immediately following Walcott's order. Walcott then continued to talk.

"You see, I've just thought about something. Very few know about your son. Now, if you do not cooperate, I will tell this muggle everything about what happened three years ago. I will even show him the report which I have so carefully hidden from the other commanders."

"You're impossible!" responded Arthur angrily.

"Now answer me, Arthur. Do you know why I chose you for this job?"

"No, High Commander," said Arthur in a lower tone.

"Wait, before we continue. There is something else I need to address."

Walcott pulled out a flintlock pistol from under his table and pointed the barrel to my head.

"You know what this weapon is, don't you, muggle? You're hiding something behind that cloak. If you do not want parts of your brain on my carpet I suggest you put them on the table now."

I was stunned at first. I did not know wizards also use guns. Reluctantly, I placed the knives on top of the table.

"Hmm, these knives. Slavic patterns. Arthur, you appear to have helped this muggle more than I have initially thought. Weren't these the ones we plundered from Kiev two years ago?"

"I will be honest with you, High Commander, he took them on his own volition."

"Excellent. You're finally telling the truth. Now we're making progress."

"The truth? Yes, I was telling the truth, but how did you know I was?"

"These knives are stored on the top floors of the blockhouses, inside crates with false bottoms. Since the stairs cannot move to that floor, the only way he can get here is through the secret passages."

"Wait, you know that the muggle knew of the secret passages?"

"Know?" *laughs* "I was the one who led him to them! Irving Platt, have you seen this pattern of cloth, by any chance?"

I immediately recognized the cloth Walcott was holding. It had the same pattern with the cloth I found hanging on one of the windows in the bathrooms, which led me to find the stairway behind the mirror. Walcott has had us dancing on the palm of his hand this entire time.

"Dilated eyes, slower breathing, stiffness of the muscle, and a fidgeting thumb. You do know of it. Platt, I'm proud of you. I expected nothing less. Now, Trelawney. I'll tell you why I picked you, but please answer some questions for me. First, what house are you from during the academy years?"

"How does this relate to the issue at hand?!"

"Answer me, Arthur!"

"Gryffindor. I thought you would know it by now."

"Yes, Gryffindor House, as did your father, grandfather, great-grandfather, and a good two-thirds of your family. Next question. By your estimate, how many people, no. How many commanders know of my private secret passage? Be it a squad sergeant, staff sergeant, sergeant-of-the-line, captain-of-hundred, or even my own legates and lieutenants."

"I remembered you say that it was very little. Maybe only one in twelve or fifteen."

"Close enough. Now, tell me. Why did you come here?"

"I've told you before. I came for answers. I wish to know why this muggle was brought here."

"You're not digging deep enough. I know that there's a deeper motive. Or, perhaps, even you do not realize what lies within the depths of your mind. However, this should suffice for now. You should have all the clues necessary to figure out why I picked you for this task."

"I still do not understand."

"You still don't? How could I know you better than yourself? It's absurd! Very well, I'll explain everything.

Gryffindor. One of the four houses in the Hogwarts academy, known for their bravery and strong sense of justice. They will stick to their ideals and challenge anyone who do not. They truly do make the best soldiers anyone could ask for, with willpower and grit unmatched in the battlefield, often found at the forefront leading the charge. Given the nature of our work, we have a lot of people from Gryffindor house here, but you are something else entirely. Counting you, there have been four generations of your family who entered Gryffindor, which means it runs in the blood. Because of that, I know that you will not stand this order, because it would go against your ideals.

What kind of ideals? You certainly know what I mean. That incident three years ago, I am sure you know very well. I guess I can keep it a secret for a little longer. But, after that said incident, you began developing a sense of loathing to us. Admit it. The only reason you are still here is because you hope that you will capture your grandfather's murderer, correct? I know, we all make mistakes sometimes and you have every right to hate us for it. But you couldn't bring yourself to do it. You couldn't hate us, and you know it, no matter how hard you try. Why? Because when put through the same conditions, you will do the same.

You have a firm set of ideals, based on a strong sense to protect those who you love, and maybe save everyone including the enemy. This new mission has gone completely against that. In your eyes, this muggle has been trying to go home, yet I have told you to make excuse after excuse, giving him a false sense of hope. You see him smile every time you visit, but deep down you know he's not going anywhere. You know he's doomed from the start. You know it's all a façade, an illusion even. How can you follow my command while still sticking to your ideals? Is there a way out of this? Will you get out of this?

I have had the honour of working with your grandfather for quite a while before his unfortunate death in 1948. Master Langston was right. You two aren't so far apart. You're both _refragari_ , as we say in Latin. You have the same adherence to ideals. You have the same courage to stand up for what's right. You have the sense of empathy to our men which most other commanders lack. And that is why I think you are the perfect man for the job.

I chose you, because I know you will betray me in the end."

We were both taken aback at Walcott's last statement.

"So all this time..." said Arthur in complete shock.

"I, I need time to think about this," I said.

"No, you do not need to do anymore thinking! We've wasted too much time already! It's time to bring a conclusion to this game of shadow. Platt, have your wounds healed?"

I stared at my legs and found the wounds have recovered slightly, but I was still bleeding.

"Hmm, only partially. Fine, sit still. This may tickle a bit. Vulnera sanentum."

I felt a strange feeling of cold gripping my body, especially in the places I was wounded at. It lasted for a few seconds, but after that, all the wounds have disappeared. Walcott then sat back down on his chair.

"My, that was tiring. I'm sorry for that harsh treatment, Platt."

During that time, Walcott's cat brought my journal book up to the table.

"Is this a journal book, Platt? Here you go. I'll need to talk to Arthur right now. You should continue on writing as this may take a while. Now, Arthur, follow me inside."

Walcott shot four bolts to Arthur's limbs which made Arthur able to move again.

"High Commander, I must say, that was the most puzzling statement that I have ever heard out of your mouth. If you know I would betray you, then why choose me?"

"Have you ever wondered what would happen if Jesus Christ did not choose Judas Iscariot as His disciple? Do you think all of humanity will be saved?"

Arthur went silent again, seemingly lost in thought. Walcott left him be for a while. At that time, I was writing slower than usual as I needed time to process all that new information. After around 5 minutes, Walcott held Arthur's back and told him to stand up.

"Still lost in thought? Come now. This is no time for internal hostilities. We have a war to fight, remember? Follow me inside, Arthur. And, Platt, don't try to escape again, please. Your turn will come soon."


	7. Conscripted

2 July 1987, 15:07

"Are you done writing yet, Platt?"

Walcott came out of his room, but Arthur did not follow him outside.

"Where is Arthur?"

"I told him to remain back there."

"Why? Is something wrong?"

"No. What I will tell you, he may not know."

"What is it that you wish to tell me?"

"I'll tell you about the man pulling the puppeteer's strings. The one who requested your arrival here. The mastermind in shadow. His name is Martin Smith."

Martin Smith appears to be a very common name for an Englishman. I feel like this is merely an alias.

"Is he the Grand Marshal?"

"No, his rank is quite far below the Grand Marshal. He is probably of equal rank to Henry Trelawney. I mentioned the Grand Marshal to Arthur to misdirect him, but it isn't exactly a lie. The Grand Marshal did tell Martin to assemble a team of muggles, but it was Martin himself who specifically requested you. Three weeks before I sent Arthur for you in London, he sent this, box, and he told me to give it to you once you have arrived."

Walcott presented a tiny safe about the size of a toaster. The dial itself was the size of a penny, and looked like one of those dials on sound system controls. On the bottom side, I can see the numbers 14-7-8.

"Platt, I'm curious. Can you show me how to open this box?"

"There's a little dial here. You need to turn it to make it open."

There were only 20 numbers in the safe's dial, but its small size made it hard to precisely land the numbers. It took me four tries to finally get it open. Inside of the safe was a folded note, written not in parchment, but on a regular sheet of paper, which I have slipped into my journal after reading.

Salutations, Mr. Platt.

I hope those wizards in Scotland did not rough you up too badly during your stay. I understand that you may be confused right now, but do not worry. It will all be clear to you if you ask the High Commander more about the Russia issue and the role of muggle task forces.

Assuming that you have, then I believe I can pick up on the story. The 1987 attack on Russia will begin in a matter of days. The previous three attacks have failed miserably, and so this time more radical plans have been made. Among those plans were the extension of recruitment for muggle operatives. That means you. Although apprenticeship usually takes one year, we have no time for such luxuries. If you are reading this note right now, that means your training is deemed complete by the high commander.

If so, here's what you need to do next. You are currently in Scotland, at the base in Ayrshire. The High Commander there is named Theodore Walcott. First, you need to demand a letter of special service from him. You will then need to request a "muggle transfer" to meet me. Walcott will surely understand, and he will fill in the details for you. I shall wait for you in Berlin, near Theodor-Wolff Park, Kreuzberg district, wearing a full NAZI officer's uniform at 9 in the night.

I shall be expecting your arrival soon. Take care and Godspeed.

Berlin?! Clearly this little misadventure has taken an unexpected turn. And, which Berlin was he referring to?

"He wants what?!"

Walcott seized the note while I was reading it, and only gave it back once he was done.

"A letter of special service?! You haven't even done anything! What am I supposed to write?"

"I had gone on a spy hunt with Arthur. Can you write that down?"

"Yes, Arthur did say the same thing. Again, he wasn't lying, and I am surprised."

"Now, can you tell me about the Russia issue?"

"Arthur didn't tell you that already?"

"No, he only mentioned it briefly."

"Fine. Brace yourself for a long one, doctor.

Our organization, called the Caledonia Front, is part of a larger unity of organizations who protect good wizards from evil wizards. Although we are interconnected, we have our own autonomous methods and means which are adapted to the region we safeguard. For instance, the Caledonia Front operates in Scotland, filled with master swordsmen, so we specialize in ranged warfare. The Norse Fief of Durham patrols shipping lanes, so their wizards are among the best flyers in Western Europe. The Iceni Confederation in Mercia face an opponent skilled in forest warfare and attrition, so their wizards are well-coordinated like the Roman Legions of the Early Empire and can withstand a protracted war.

However, our enemies are steadily learning and improving too. Methods that work 100 years ago would be obsolete today. In some cases, if the enemy improves too quickly, we would struggle to keep up, and they may seize control of multiple regions because of that. Ireland is at risk of falling, and Moscow fell in 1980, triggering a deluge of defections and retreats all the way to 1984. This is by far the worst loss of control in the last few centuries, rivalling Delhi in 1755. We have lost control over a region spanning larger than the Roman Empire during the reign of Trajan, from Warsaw to Astana, from Murmansk to Adrianople to the Jaxartes River.

We have expected that things like this may happen. The Grand Council has made emergency preparations for such an occurrence. Back in the 18th of March, 988 AD, they convened at Aachen and established the Great Defence League. At least, that's what they're roughly called when translated to English. It basically grouped all existing anti-evil wizard organizations to a single administration while still preserving their autonomy, thus easing help requests and unit transfers and in the process greatly increased our working efficiency.

Thanks to that, at the year of 1984 we finally held them off, and through 1985 and 1986 our allies have pushed them out of multiple regions. The Chinese pushed them out of the Eastern Steppes back to Astana. The Egyptians ousted them away from Greece, reinforced by a sizeable Nubian contingent. We even had to ask for help from Transatlantica to help us pry them off Poland. Trans-bloody-atlantica, otherwise known to you muggles as America if I am not mistaken. The Columbian East Coast Defence Coalition sent a quarter of all their wizards, combat and non-combat units, including their elite shaman unit whom I fought with in 1986. You can see how big this conflict is.

Despite our combined efforts, there is one hurdle which we could not pass. Russia proper. The evil wizards there have been building up fortifications and developed multiple plans of defence. Our attack in 1984 failed before it even began. In 1985 the campaign was cut short due to the loss of the field marshal commanding the troops. The campaign of 1986 did enjoy mild success at first, but abysmal coordination turned it into a crushing defeat. This time, we have taken extra precautions to ensure it does not happen again."

"If they planned a takeover on that scale, they must have been preparing for years. How can they evade attention?"

"It's the same with our current problem with the death eaters here. The problem is that they look exactly the same as we do. They send their children to the same magic academies, they go to shop at our wizard towns, and they even have representatives in the wizard councils. We couldn't act until they show their true colours."

"And where do I fit into all this?"

"From the selection of words in this letter, it appears that Martin wants you to become a muggle operative. To put it simply, muggle operatives are the opposite of wizard informers. Informers come from the wizard world and work in your world, giving information to us. Operatives come from the muggle world but assist in many tasks in the wizard world.

Muggle operatives are highly prized for their ingenuity and mastery over non-magical technology. Judging from the tools you use, I must humbly admit that we are at least 200 years behind, perhaps even further back. For example, my gun here can only hold one bullet, while yours can hold six if I recall correctly. You have that small rotating barrel on your guns which allow you to shoot in rapid succession, and thus far wizard attempts at replicating it have failed. The replicas do work, but they all were too unreliable and failed after firing around 300 shots, probably only enough for one battle or two. Here, let me show you."

Walcott took out a revolver from under his table. The barrel had a wider diameter at the centre part.

"Why is the barrel bloated here?"

"I don't know. It wasn't bloated when it was first made. Maybe it was subject to too much heat."

"When did you wizards first made these?"

"They've been around for nearly 150 years, I think."

"Certainly that would have been enough time to develop better ones."

"There are some better ones, but they are so expensive I would settle for a regular single-shot breech-loading musket instead."

"Do you have any more repeating shot pistols?"

"No, but the Chinese have a repeating shot musket. It's like a musket with five gun barrels, which are cumbersome to reload and also large and heavy. Their accuracy is also poor compared to our crossbows. If you want to use it, you would have to kneel. Otherwise, the weight of the gun will knock you back hard. The only one we have belongs to Commander Peng, an inspector sent from China by the Grand Council. To be honest with you, if he did not carry that thing here, I wouldn't have known something like that existed.

Wait. Has Arthur told you that we were just pretending to have no knowledge of China and the Far East?"

"Yes."

"Good. I won't need to waste your time then. Now, to continue, the man who you will be assigned to is Martin Smith, a legend among other muggle operatives. His experience spans 30 years and he has done many great deeds for us. The evil wizards want him dead, but none have managed to get him. They have hired assassins to kill him, yet they all end up dead, missing, or turned against their clients. Martin Smith's reputation is so great that even here in Scotland, if you were to go to a tavern to hire assassins or bounty hunters to go after him, they will refuse without hesitation and tell the tavern keeper to kick you out."

"Is he really that frightening?"

"Only to those who oppose him."

"Have you met him?"

"No, I've only heard rumours and read reports. But, if you do manage to meet him, ask for his signature for me."

"What?!"

Note to self: autographs are also a thing in the wizard world.

"Hey, it's not a sin to admire others, you know. Just as long as you don't idolize them too much."

"You're like, about 60-something years old, and you still act as a teenager would!"

"60-odd years, you mean? Do I really look that young to you?"

"Huh?"

"I'm 87 years old. How did your estimate be off so far?"

Immediately, I slumped on the chair. I sat speechless for a moment, unable to comprehend how someone can live so long and still look so young. Then, I stretched my neck backwards. Only then did I saw a magnificent mosaic of a castle and surrounding countryside on the ceiling of the room. The colour was vivid, similar to the stones in that cave when I first came here. I couldn't see it earlier as it was in the blind spot of my view when I was still in the secret passage.

"Wait, I understand. Muggles don't age as slowly as we do. You're used to the fact that people my age would have white hair, yet as you can see, it's still all black. Wizards usually don't get white hair until they're around 90-115 years old, depending if you're a man or woman. Of course, that is far above your life expectancy, so you did not consider that factor. Correct?"

"Roughly so."

"Very well, let's set that matter aside for now. Next, Martin here wants you to do a muggle transfer but he did not specify the time, instead saying that you should not keep him waiting. That would probably mean he wants you to go tonight. If you were to head to Berlin, you should arrive within 16 hours of flight. However, the journey against the night wind would be exhausting on your body, so I suggest you stop at France for a while. I'll make an arrangement with another muggle operative to help you."

"Wait a minute. I haven't given my consent for this."

"Pardon?"

"You're coaxing me to go against my consent. I plan to spend these few months to reunite with my family after returning from Africa."

"Now I see why Trelawney likes you so much. Well then, Platt, listen here."

Walcott stood up from his chair and began walking around the room. He paused for a moment near the fireplace.

"Platt, you see, there's something else you need to know. You are in no position to refuse. Even if you do, we can always remove your memory of everything."

"What gives you the right to... mmmmpf"

Arthur shot a light blue bolt to my mouth which sealed my mouth shut. It felt as if my lips were clamped down. I can still move my tongue, but my jaws are locked in place.

"You see, it's not that difficult. I've taken away your speech, and I can do the same to your memories. However,"

Arthur shot a yellow bolt to my mouth which restored my ability to talk.

"However, I am not that type of leader. I despise the use of force for such trivial means. Besides, I can see that you are a good man, upholding the familial values of the First Republic: Pietas, Gravitas, and Dignitas. Now, Platt, I'll need to ask you some questions."

Walcott walked behind my chair. However, as I turned my head to look, he had disappeared. When I looked to the table again, he was already sitting down in a reclining position.

"We should discuss this with a cool head, as adults would. That would be the better option, do you agree?"

"Yes."

"Very well. Now, you lead. Can you tell me why you do not want to go?"

"I've told you that before. I have a family to return to."

"Hmm, the old Imperials did say soldiers shouldn't get married. With your case, however, I will need to take a different approach. You do know what we fight for, do you, Platt?"

"Yes, you fight to keep the evil wizards at bay."

"And, why would we do that?"

"Because, if the evil wizards win, it would be bad, right?"

"Spoken like a pre-academy child. Can you elaborate, Platt? Why exactly would it be bad?"

"I don't quite know. They will usher in a rule of tyranny and terror?"

"Not quite correct, Platt. Let me tell you what will happen. Or rather, let me show you."

Walcott took a file folder from under his table, labelled in Cyrillic. It looked like a flat leather bag.

"Do you know what this is, Platt?"

"No, I cannot read this."

"Certainly the pictures will be enough. Come and have a look."

I decided to shuffle through the pictures, and found numerous moving pictures of the muggle world. Some were in the Soviet Union, China, Germany, France, Britain, Greece, and Italy. Others were too vague or too common to guess, only showing a street with rows of houses or an empty coastline. There were about 300 pictures and numerous other notes in Cyrillic, yet they somehow fit into the file without causing it to bloat.

"These files were recovered in 1986. They are clearly planning something big against the muggle world."

"How should I know that these aren't forgeries? This could be a bag of false evidence."

*sigh* "Platt, let me ask you back. How can you know these are forgeries?"

"We're not going anywhere with this line of conversation."

"Good point. Let me just tidy this up for a moment."

Walcott shot the bag with his wand and it began crawling on the table, sucking and eating up all the pictures and notes as if it was Pac-man.

"Now, Platt, tell me. Clearly a man like you would not allow anything bad to happen to your family, right?"

"I see where you're taking this conversation. You're asking me this right now, but under the table you have sent wizards to capture my family too, is that correct? Suddenly I'll be seeing them caged, and then you will threaten to wipe out my memory again."

Walcott appeared to be displeased by that remark. He sat back upright, and said: "Do not take us for a band of brigands, Irving Platt. And, do not try my patience, for I am not a saint." After saying that, the air in the room began to get noticeably colder.

"What is going on?"

"You are getting far too excited. I decided to cool this room down a little. Now, please, Platt. Let us assume that the pictures you saw were real. What if these evil wizards were to take over the muggle world?"

"Certainly they will be no match for our superior technology."

"Certainly they have thought about that too. That is why they will slowly adapt and learn until it is too late for you to stop them. However, it is not too late now. If you join us, you can fight them back."

"Is there a chance that I may leave after this? I do not wish to spend my entire life fighting."

"Of course. If you wish it so, once the attack is over you can talk to Martin and he will help you to remove your memory."

"But, this is a war. There is a chance that I may die. What will..."

"What will be of your family? Is your greatest fear that of perishing in a foreign land with none to deliver the news to your family? Do you fear that they will spend the rest of their days waiting in vain for you to return? To that, I can firmly say no!"

Walcott pulled out a dirk from under his table. He held it by the grip with both of his hands and stood it on top of the table.

"I don't make promises very often, but this much I can pledge. If you die, I will personally see that your family receives the news, albeit with a different circumstance. I will even go the extra mile and ensure your family never starves, periodically sending them gold to buy necessities with. Do you accept my pledge?"

"Well, I, er..."

"Platt, we have no more time. The invasion looms closer every second. Please make a decision."

"..."

"In your wedding vows, you have pledged to protect your family, right?"

"Yes."

"Am I correct in saying that you wish nothing but the best for them?"

"Yes."

"Given the chance, do you wish to fight for their safety and their future?"

"Yes."

"And not only for their future, but for the future of your countrymen as well? For the hundreds you have healed throughout your life?"

"Yes."

"So, do you want to join this great crusade, in the name of God and for the glory of your nation, against these agents of darkness who threaten the peace of the world, and atone the mistakes of your ancestors?"

"Yes."

Walcott stood up and placed the dirk on the table with the grip pointing towards me.

"If you truly wish it so, then so it shall be. Dominus testificatus est inter te et enim. Welcome to the great struggle, Mr. Irving Platt. You are one of us now."

"..."

(What just happened?)

"Normally we would hold an initiation ceremony like how one would be knighted, but we do not have the time nor the appropriate circumstance for that. Now, here is what you must do. Go back to your quarters, pack up everything you need, and meet me here back here once you are done. You can use my spare cloak."

Walcott took out a cloak from beneath the table. As I stood up to leave, Walcott added, "Wait! You forgot your knives."

"But, aren't these yours?"

"Ours? Well, we plundered a bit too many. Frankly if they were to sit in that box until the war is over I would send them to the mint and have them be turned into silver coins."

"So these knives are made of silver?"

"Yes, but you can take them. I believe you will need them more than we do. It's cold in Russia, especially in the winter. Iron and steel become brittle when cold, but not silver. Now, you best be off. Write your last will, say some prayers, and know the cause for which you fight. Your family, your nation, and the entire world hangs in the balance. I shall await your return."

'

2 July 1987, 17:11

I returned to Walcott's room after I had packed up my bags, using the regular path this time, wearing the cloak completely closed so that no-one would notice my modern clothes. Along the way, I began to wonder if I had made the right choice, but then I looked back at my past. In 1967, I went to Japan to evade conscription for the Vietnam War, but I had undergone a radical paradigm shift there thanks to some unforeseen circumstances. As a result, after finishing medical school, I volunteered myself to be deployed into many combat zones where my life was in constant risk. I have been to Lebanon, the Western Sahara, the Falklands, Iraq, Ethiopia, and recently Chad. If this is another war where my work is required, then I am no stranger to the dangers that await. I need to use my experience and skill to save as many men as possible, as I have done numerous times before.

Walcott's room was well-guarded and sited in an easily defensible location. I saw more of his elite guard on my way here. They weren't standing still like statues like military guards. Instead, they are inside other rooms in the hallway. When I reached Walcott's room, he had opened the door before I got the chance to knock.

"That was faster than I expected. Your transport isn't ready yet, so you should come inside."

"How did you know I was coming?"

"The floors are lined with magical wards which can inform me if someone is approaching. It's an academy-level craft which can be made by anyone above second-year, but it still helps a lot."

"Where are they positioned?"

"I don't think it is necessary for you to know that, but I can say that it isn't on the floor."

"So, what should we do now?"

"We wait. Maybe, I can cook something for the both of us in the meantime."

"You can cook too?"

"Yes, but don't expect it to be as elaborate as the meals cooked by our chefs. I'll make some oatmeal porridge, grandma's recipe. I can never go wrong with that, at least."

Boy Scout nightmares return.

…

As I am writing this, Walcott is still in his room, probably cooking. It is taking an oddly long time, but maybe the recipe for oatmeal is different here. His cat has been sleeping on the chairs near the fireplace since I came here. I have also noticed that the blown off secret passage wall has been cleaned of debris, but the hole still remains. As I approached the hole, I found that it was covered in some kind of invisible force field, which stung like a low-power electric fence when touched.

"Hey, muggle, don't come too close! That wall's still being repaired!"

And, again, I wonder how Walcott managed to find out about that.

'

2 July 1987, 19:55

Walcott's oatmeal was better than expected. It tasted somewhere between sweet and salty, but the viscosity was just right. Walcott has also mixed in several bright yellow grains not found in the muggle world, which are the size of rice grains. Of course, as this is oatmeal, they are equally as tasteless. He served them on a cauldron the size of a pot, and I took a portion using a spoon and a bowl.

"It's a family recipe. You won't find it anywhere else. Everything needs to be measured to scientific precision."

"You wizards really like to overdo things."

"It's not overdone. Magic just makes everything easier. Besides, ever since I was assigned to this position I no longer do field work unless in an emergency, and frankly, it feels like I'm trapped in a cage. My job is just to sit here, writing papers and assigning orders. The war in Russia, in a sense, was a key that unlocked that cage. For the first time in years, I was told to fight in the front lines once more, and that made me reflect on what it means to be a leader. Yes, you need to be stern at times, but it is also key to trust your men. The British Ministry of Magic did not put me in this post to manage every minute detail in this castrum like Ptolemaic Egypt. I learned to put more faith in my commanders, knowing that they too are capable people who need to grow on their own. Ah, sorry. I believe I got too carried away again."

"No, it's fine, but it just feels odd hearing all this from you all of a sudden. I thought you were similar to an emotionless despotic dictator, judging from the way you spoke earlier."

"It's the food, Platt. I don't cook this very often. Perhaps, hardly ever would be a more suitable word. This dish reminds me of my old life, between the time I graduated from the academy and my apprenticeship here. I guess I should not delve too deep into that matter for now."

"That is acceptable. Now, can you tell me more about this Martin Smith person?"

"Platt, my account on him would be biased by my admiration towards him. I strongly suggest that you find out in person. Ah, I just remembered to ask you this. In the letter, he said that he was wearing a NAZI uniform. What is this NAZI thing? Is it some form of military organization like ours?"

"First, I need to ask you this. How much do you know about muggle history? Especially in the past 75 years?"

"Muggle history? 75 years? That would put us in the year 1912. Let's see, in 1912, there was a war in the Balkans, I think. Oh, yes, and then there was this iron ship that was deemed unsinkable, but sank in the North Atlantic. I forgot its name, but news of the sinking spread quickly across the world. 2 years after that, England, France, and Russia found themselves fighting the Germans, Austrians, and the Turks. The war lasted for 4 years, but ground to a halt because of a deadly disease from Spain which killed more than the Black Death.

Because of the disease, both sides are unable to fight any further, and had to declare a truce of 20 years until the plague had passed. The plague also caused a shake in the markets, culminating in 1929, when nearly half of the merchant population was thrown into poverty. Having too much on sale but no one to buy was a bad thing, especially in the muggle world where you produce objects on a colossal scale. Because of this, governments turned to more drastic measures to safeguard their very existence, which is war. Japan fired the first shot against China, then Italy to Abyssinia, and Germany to basically everyone else.

Then they fought for 9 years, from 1936 to 1945. Abyssinia fell first, then Bohemia, then Southern Mongolia. Wait, maybe I got the orders reversed. Anyway, the major powers only intervened when Poland was invaded. Apparently, they had to draw a line there. The war ended with a German defeat, but then the victors could not agree on how to divide the spoils. When it looked like another war was coming, a deal was set to divide Europe into two spheres of influence. Britain and France on one end, and Russia in the other. Neither side was satisfied, but it was better than having to fight another war."

"Alright, stop there. I think you know enough."

Walcott's account was two-thirds accurate. I see some connect-the-dots sentences, but I must commend his creativity. His sentences do make sense when given some thought. Plague and death can devastate the economy, but I think he may have overestimated the impact of the Spanish Flu. His scenario can only work if the Spanish Flu outbreak lasted to the 1930s and killed about 30% of the human population.

"Now, about those NAZIs, they are some sort of political organization in Germany. A faction in the senate, to put it simply. After the plague and the downfall of the economy, they were the ones largely responsible for putting Germany back on their feet. However, in the muggle world, there is a saying that power corrupts people."

"Yes, we know that too in the wizard world."

"The problem is, the NAZIs blamed Germany's troubles on their defeat in the war of 1918. They then galvanized the people to..."

"Galvanized? What does that word mean?"

"To rouse. They roused the people for another war."

I need to remember to select my words carefully. The English these wizards use are very obsolete by our standards today.

"Right, I understand now. They roused the people for war, and lost again. Now they have lost the trust of the people and with it, all their influence, leaving them as just a minor faction in the senate."

"No, it's far worse. They weren't just shunned. The victors dismantled their faction, put their leaders to death, imprisoned their followers, and outlawed the general populace from even mentioning them. That said, I'm confused why this Martin Smith person would be crazy enough to do this stunt in Berlin."

"Ah, woe to the vanquished. The horror and misfortune of the unfortunate heroes of a nation, destroyed by another."

If Walcott was a muggle I would punch him in the face until he loses some teeth.

"If you know what they did, you would change your rhetoric. These people are as cruel and vicious as wild animals, and I have proof."

"Ah, a stern tone, now, have we? Vicious and cruel are relative. Let me hear them and allow me to judge."

"First, they killed off six million Jews. They packed them into camps and slowly eliminated them all."

"Cruel indeed, but not unheard of. When the Mongols destroyed the city of Baghdad, the devastation was so severe that Mesopotamia would not recover for centuries. Besides, this wasn't the first time it occurred. When the Catholic mobs of the First Crusade travelled from town to town killing Jews in the Holy Roman Empire, the Pope did show naught but contempt. Anything else?"

"Their economy was built only for their own good. They only care for advancement of their own race and oppressed the others."

"So did the Spanish and Portuguese. Like the Mongols, the devastation they caused in Transatlantica was so severe that Aztec, Mayan, and Incan wizards would distrust the wizards from Europe for centuries. It was horrifying for them. The muggles died off, their empires collapsed, and with nowhere to go, they isolated themselves for centuries. Even the Vikings and Malians, who have been their trade partners for centuries before, were cut off."

"Malians?!"

"You seem surprised. Is something wrong?"

"No, nothing. I'm just confused as to how they came to know Ameri, uh, Transatlantica."

"Oh, that. Did they not teach you that in muggle schools? About the great voyage of Mansa Qu, nephew of Sundiata Keita, the Lion King of Mali. Wait, I remember. Maybe we altered your history there. According to muggle history, he went across the Atlantic and never returned. In our history, he did reach the Great Southern Forest and, after a year of exploration, reached the borders of the Incan empire.

Beforehand, he made a deal with Kankou Musa: as he travelled across the Atlantic, Kankou Musa will lead Mali as the new Mansa, but he will rule from across the ocean. Once he reached the Incan principalities, trade immediately followed. Gold from the Incas thus flowed to Mali, establishing Mansa Musa as one of the world's richest monarchs. His opulence and resplendence likely exceeded that of King Solomon, son of David."

I have so many questions...

"Enough talk there, Platt. As of now, I see this NAZI faction as nothing more different than any conqueror, both muggle and wizard. I assume that the followers have also made an imperial cult around their consul, or should I say, dictator?"

"Yes, you're right."

"Am I correct in saying that they have also sent assassins against their opponents in the senate? Perhaps, even going as far as discrediting the other factions through dirty means so that no-one would miss them?"

"That's also correct."

"You're boosting my confidence, Platt. Let me guess further. They also have a separate unit in the army, not loyal to the state but only to their faction and their leader in particular. They claim to be acting on the best interests of the state, but are in fact nothing more than sentries to suppress dissent from the people."

"Yes, but, how did you manage to guess so accurately?"

"It's simple. I took elements of older dictatorships of the past. The imperial cult? That was from the Old Empire. Assassins in the senate? Renaissance Italy. A separate unit in the army? Let me ask you back. How many lords have had retinues under their own control? But enough of that. Yes, I can see that they are cold and cruel tyrants, but they are not one of a kind. History has seen many pass like so."

"I can see that, but I think..."

"Platt, I believe I know the real reason of their destruction. The other nations have other interests in mind, and it will conflict with theirs if this faction isn't dealt with swiftly. I mean, if one sizeable faction in the senate wants war and all other factions want peace, it is not unheard of for that one faction to be attacked from all sides with the dirty tricks of the rest of the senate. I am sure that the agenda of both the British and French would somehow conflict with the Germans, and they too must have learned a lot about history to know that they need to be dealt swiftly. After all, Machiavelli did say that all cruelty must be done as quickly and swiftly as possible, and then you should try to win the hearts of the people. They would have blamed the NAZIs for everything, orchestrate their swift downfall, and make themselves look like heroes."

Walcott makes it look like the NAZIs were victims of circumstance.

"You've been calling out these dirty tricks in the senate all the time, when that is not the case."

"I'm afraid you're mistaken, Platt. Your governmental system is a polity, am I correct? However, I must stress to you that there is no such thing as a true polity. The masses may look to that ideal, but the senators often do not. Power can drive people mad, and I, above all else in this castrum, must keep that in mind. Also, I believe I have asked enough to get a good grasp of this NAZI faction. We should cut the conversation here."

Walcott had cut the conversation far earlier than I had hoped for. As a result, we continued eating the oatmeal in silence, staring at one another. After I finished, Walcott offered me a second portion, which I have finished as well. All the while, Walcott was still in his first portion.

"Why are you hurrying, Platt? Oatmeal is something to be taken slowly. Wait, I think I know why. Being a medicus, you need to do everything quickly because you never know when a sickly person would walk into your doors. Is that correct?"

"Yes, but in addition to that, my father was a soldier. He was very strict in matters of timekeeping, and I developed a sense of urgency to everything ever since then."

"Although a sense of urgency is required in these times of war, you must not allow them to overwhelm you. A calm mind will keep you from brash action which will endanger yourself and those around you."

"I'll keep that in mind, thank you."

"You muggles have a very queer figure of speech. I understand what you mean, but the phrases you utter are odd at times."

"Well, the English language has changed a lot over the past century. Our technology has become so advanced that our language would at times lag behind."

"Lag?"

"Fall behind."

We stared at each other awkwardly for a few moments. Walcott then continued eating, while I walked around the room. As I walked behind the desk, I saw Walcott had disappeared.

"What is it that you're doing, Platt?"

Again, Walcott appeared behind me, near the small door which Arthur went into earlier.

"Bloody hell! You gave me a fright! Please, stop that."

"A high sense of alertness, I see you have. Martin always picks the right man for the job somehow. It may be worth the trouble after all."

"I'm just curious, but what is inside that room?"

"That's my bedroom, nothing more. I brought Arthur in yesterday because he was visibly shaken."

'

2 July 1987, 22:18

A while after eating that oatmeal, I felt very drowsy. Walcott allowed me to sleep on the chairs near the fireplace. I woke up an hour later, when a voice rang out across the room.

"High Commander! He has arrived!"

By the time I woke up, I found that Walcott's cat was sleeping on my stomach. I gently set it aside and stood up, scrubbing off any hairs.

"Well, Platt, time to go. Wear this cloak and follow me."

Walcott gave me a cloak which was pitch black, but felt soft to the touch It felt like it was made of silk. I followed him outside the blockhouse, heading east to the underground gardens, then to the observatory. Walcott wasn't wearing a cloak and his clothes were also rather plain, but everywhere we go, the other wizards would stop whatever it is they are doing and saluted him. I felt like I was walking besides a king, or a high-ranked general. When we reached the inner wall, the sentries on the ground lined up on our sides like a military procession. Four of them then followed us outside.

We walked further east, past what looks like a guard tower, a number of trebuchets, and another tower with fire burning on top. Unlike the inner parts of the base, the outer part had less structures and was mostly empty. Then, at one point, we got off the path altogether, heading into the darkness with only the oil lamps of the sentries to help us see. We were standing on a barren field of compacted earth, continuing to walk until I saw a light from afar.

There, standing in the middle of the field was a Spanish man, tall and pale, with a thick moustache and a cavalier hat which looked like it was made in the Baroque period. His eyes were large and alert, and he stood in a soldier-like pose, holding a ball-shaped glass lantern with a candle burning in the middle like a statue. His clothes and cloak are also noticeably thicker than the ones Walcott was wearing, also coloured pitch black, and on his belt was a pistol similar to the one Walcott had. Behind the man was a strange wooden device, with wings made of fabric, and a bottom grip made of iron. The device looked like a paraglider.

"Ave, Theodorus, Praefectus castrorum Caledonia Valentia Australis. Roma tibi salutem dicit atque ego te ut fratrem amplector."

"Ave, Centurio princeps. Esne quis Hispanius appellatur?"

They continued talking in Latin for several minutes. Then, the Spanish man then looked at me and said, "Hey, muggle, do you speak Spanish?"

"Only a little, sir," I replied.

"Not to worry. I am also fluent in English. My name is Enrique Terentius de Pedraza, a centurion princeps, or commander as you muggles call it, from the New Republican Peacekeeping Force. I operate from Cádiz, Andalucia Occidental, in the Hispania region."

"New Republic?"

*sigh* "Greenhorns... Anyway, what I meant was the Roman Republic. Big surprise to you, we still exist. Now, be marvelled for a moment, and snap back to reality. Your next line will be: "I thought the Romans were destroyed by the Ottoman Empire in 1453!" To that I say, not quite. Muggle Rome was destroyed, but wizard Rome still lives on. And, after 1666, the Great Council was generous enough to return about a third of our land and some outposts too. Now, can you please follow me for a moment?"

Enrique has this strange air to him that feels hypnotizing. I don't know if it's his raspy tenor voice or his play on words, or his odd stare, but I have a strange compulsion to do whatever it is he says. A man with this projection of authority would be perfect to fit the role of a captain.

"Is something wrong, sir?"

"No, I just need to see your body size so that I can adjust the flying machine."

"With all due honesty, I don't think it is able to fly."

"Don't worry, muggle. Magic solves many problems. What's your name?"

"Irving Platt."

"Well, Mr. Platt, can you give me all your belongings for safekeeping? We can't have them falling down mid-flight."

I handed over all my belongings to Enrique except for the journal book and pen. He then stuffed them all into a small sack, and placed the sack into his bag. Then, Enrique gave me a musket and a pouch filled with, candles?

"Also, Mr. Platt, I don't think it would be a good idea to leave you completely defenceless. I'll give you that musket and a set of grenades. They should come in handy if needed to."

Guide to Wizard Grenades

Ball shape = Flash grenade

Cube shape = Shrapnel grenade

Triangle prism = Greek fire

Pyramid shape = Noxious gas

Cylinder shape = Smoke grenade

Hexagon prism = Blizzard grenade (?)

"What is this blizzard grenade?"

"Let me warn you in advance, you should not be using that thing except when I tell you to. Once you pull the string, a blizzard will start forming at that point, rendering the air colder than the coldest winter. The winds and cold are so severe that even Hyperborean wizards would pass out and plummet to their doom, and so would we if we don't get far away enough in time. That, and also because they are expensive to fabricate. I'm not a rich man, Platt."

"Don't they ration your grenades or something?"

"No. They just give us gold and told us to buy whatever we deem necessary for the mission. As I am a commander, I receive greater pay, but considering the risks of my jobs, I ended up spending most of them anyway."

"Why don't they just ration these things?"

"It's bad for the economy. Our job isn't just to keep the peace, but we are also encouraged to spend money in the places we visit, assisting in their prosperity. Since regular wizards hardly ever leave their home province, our trips are essential for the circulation of wealth. Nothing is rationed apart from food, so when you fire that musket, make sure you hit."

"I believe you will be very disappointed with that. I am not good with guns. I am a doctor."

Enrique paced back and forth following my statement, seemingly lost in thought. He then said: "Very well. I wasn't told of this. Had I known that you were a doctor, I would have asked for more men to follow me. But now, I find myself in a problematic situation. To cross The Channel alone with you would be dangerous. To request an escort from this place would mean weakening the already thinned defences of this castrum further, and I have no authority to do so as Britannia is no longer Roman territory aside from Portus Dubris. We can wait longer, but time is already running out for all of us. Platt, what do you think should we do?"

"We have to go. There is no other choice."

I didn't know what happened there, but for a second I felt very brave. When he uttered the last sentence, he was staring at me with this strange look that was like a begging little girl in one eye and a stern, commanding officer in the other. At that moment, I lost rational thought, and adrenaline kicked in. For some reason, I felt that he forced that sentence out of my mouth.

"Yes, you're right. We couldn't waste any more time here. But, at least, show me that you can shoot."

Enrique then requested some ammunition from the castrum and taught me on how to fire his musket. It was a breech-loading musket, so I did not have to ram the bullet in from the end of the barrel. However, the bullet and the powder are still separate. I had to manually fill the musket with powder before firing. I was told to fire a shot to a sack positioned 10 meters away. Using the training I had in Okinawa, I managed to hit four out of five, but none were close to the centre.

"Well, it's better than nothing. I've seen worse. Now, we best get going. Do you want some whiskey?"

"Whiskey?"

"Yes, I stopped by at Hawick earlier. The Holy Roman Empire can have their beer, but Scottish whiskey is the best in Europe. This will help you stay up all night."

"But how can I shoot straight when I'm drunk?"

"Wizard whiskey does not make people drunk. At least, not this one. You can treat it like muggle coffee."

The whiskey had a strong flavour, unlike anything in the muggle world. It had a bitter-sweet aftertaste which alternates as time passes. Furthermore, the effects also took hold quickly. Within a minute, I felt like I had just woke up on the early morning.

"Now are you ready, Platt? Tell me when you want to go, but don't make me wait too long."

…

These are likely the final words of my journal that I will write here in Scotland. I may still long to return, but the fact that the muggle world faces such a threat is too difficult to let slip. I've been in danger before, for most of my adult life when I look back at it, but I should not hesitate to go. Be it another country, another continent, or another world entirely, I am a Red Cross doctor first and foremost, and I will not back down from my duties. If God wills that I discover the wizard world, He certainly wishes for me to do something here. I only pray that I make it out of this conflict alive.

ACT 1 END


	8. Interlude: The Old Frenchman

It has been nearly a month since your boss sent you on the assignment to meet with Irving Platt. After reading all the journal entries on that flash drive, you thought of it as nonsense and went on with your life. However, oddly enough, ever since you delivered that wax-sealed letter you notice that Nathaniel Jameson is often absent. "It could not be just mere coincidence, could it? Ah, I should just mind my own business," you thought to yourself.

Unfortunately, you do not have the luxury to do so anymore.

11:18 PM. A sudden phone call awakens you from your half-asleep state. "An unknown number? Who could be calling this late in the night?" You thought. However, once you answer, you heard a familiar voice that you immediately recognize. It was that Frenchman again.

"Bonjour, Anglaiser. You were the kid who met with Doctor Platt, correct? I'm sorry for interrupting your sleep, but I need your help again. In two weeks, the doctor will receive a package from me. I need you to act as an intermediary and deliver it to Jameson."

You immediately threatened to call the police, but what he said next chilled you down to the spine. He was quick to inform you that you were an immigrant to London, then he followed it up by stating your real name, your birthday, your address, the names of your parents, and your credit card information. He even went as far as telling you what websites you have visited throughout the past week, and detailing the colour of the clothes you wore to work earlier today. You tried to hang up the call, but it would not shut, as if the software had been taken over from a remote source. Immediately, you stuffed the phone into the pillow and tried to run away, but suddenly, the speaker turned on and you can hear his voice resonate through the room.

"Why are you running? I mean no harm! If I did, we would have sent assassins long before this." *sigh* "Fine, I apologize for being too direct with my approach. Please, can we talk again, my young friend? I did not mean to scare you like so. My name is Mathieu Thériault, from Orléans. If you have been reading Platt's journal files, you will notice the name of Martin Smith mentioned in the last few pages. I know him too. In fact, I was his apprentice. Here, let me show you. Go check your laptop."

You ran to the laptop on your desk, and saw that it was in the midst of downloading a .zip file from an unknown website. As you try to trace back the IP address with a trick you learned from your co-worker, you find that it points to a military base in Iraq.

"Oh? I'm being traced? Clever child, good luck finding me. I'm behind seven proxies, and for each one you take down I will set up another. Now just sit down and wait. The download should conclude soon enough."

Once the download concluded, Mathieu continued talking: "Now, I may need to stress this fact before you continue reading. When I first met Martin, we were far from friends. I looked at him with animosity and contempt, blinded by hatred and prejudice. My attitude did change over time, but now that he's gone, I wished that that change had happened sooner. He is, in my opinion, by far the greatest man I have ever met, and at his funeral I wept harder than at my own father's funeral. I'll just remind you of one last thing before I hang up. Are your parents still alive? When was the last time you called your parents just to say that you love them? I'll let you think over it for a moment. Meet Platt in two weeks, he should have the package ready by then."

'

7:33 PM the next day. You came home from work confused as ever. Suddenly, your boss Jameson wants you to take a day off, on the exact day that you are supposed to meet Platt. You suspect that this Mathieu person has some connection to your boss, but now, you feel that you should read more chapters to understand Platt's background.

With that, you continue reading.


	9. Night Flight to Berlin

3 July 1987, 06:33

We finally made it to France, in the home of an alchemist who has also been an informant in the muggle world. Enrique is sleeping inside one of the rooms with the door locked, but the whiskey's effects had not yet wore off on me, so I decided to write what happened yesterday.

It is true of what they say about the first jump being the hardest. After drinking the whiskey and writing that final paragraph, and also taking a moment of prayer, I went to the flying machine and held onto its grips. It turns out that the black cloak Walcott gave me had some sort of magnetic pull to the machine. It constricted both the front and the back parts, and it felt rather tight around the stomach area. The machine itself felt light, and it was retractable to some extent, so I can walk with relative ease.

We then headed slightly further east, near an opening in the mountain which was heavily guarded. And by heavily, I mean Buckingham Palace or The Pentagon level of security. Apart from the stone guard towers and walls, I saw trench lines, catapults, ballistae, cannons, and a lot of wizards, all in position to defend a cave opening only about the size of two school buses. From the security level here it looks like they are preparing for an all-out war.

Walcott: "The reason why the paths between the inner and outer wall are empty is because all the wizards who are supposed to be on patrol are gathered here at the gates. If those spies can poison our supplies that easily they must have considerable skill, so I'm not taking any chances."

We walked slowly to the mouth of the cave, where I was told to jump off. At first, I looked down and tried to see how far I was from the ground. Before I got a chance to ask for a running start, I felt a sudden gale behind my back and was pushed off by it. I think Walcott did it, but I can't really know as everyone else was standing a good distance away. Immediately after that happened, the wings sprang open, and I began to glide.

The experience itself could not be put into words, but I can still describe what happened. After a while, I levelled my heading, and began gaining altitude too. The wings in the flying machine did not stay static. They can flap at times, giving me some lift. The flaps made no sound, but after every flap, I can feel a breeze on my legs and feet. The cloak from Walcott is very good in keeping the air from my body, like a motorcycle jacket would.

"How does it feel, Platt?"

As I looked back, I saw Enrique flying behind. His broomstick looked rather different than regular broomsticks. The handle was wider, and on its front side I saw what looked like a scope. Now that Enrique's asleep, it may be a good opportunity to inspect his broomstick after I finish writing.

"It feels liberating. I feel like I'm a bird."

"Good. Now, do you see a piece of rope near both your arm rests? That is connected to the wing crossbow."

"Wing crossbow?"

"Certainly you don't think we will be leaving you completely defenceless, right? If you examine the wing closely, two of the wooden frames on each side are hollow. That is called a calamus. Inside of it is a mechanism that allows it to shoot bolts. Normally they don't have any specific element, but I have bought fire-element bolts to deal better damage against larger enemies we may encounter."

"Larger enemies?"

"Flying carpets, sky caravans, air chariots, even flying ships of any size. If the death eaters, I mean, the evil wizards know where you are, they will send men to hunt us down. Keep vigilant, Platt."

"I will."

Throughout the journey, we were flying low enough that we can see the lights from wizard settlements we crossed. Some are no more than a dot, others are big clusters and can give a general impression of the cityscape. Enrique has pointed to me the names of the places we flew through so I will write them down in place of the regular timestamps in this entry.

Also, I will use the information given to me by this map to write down the names of the towns.

 **-River Tweed (Flavia Tuidi), Territory of Lanarkshire, Provincia Caledonia Valentia**

"Hey, Platt, look down there. What do you see?"

"That's the river which marked the start of my tale."

*laughs* "Platt, your English appears to have been tainted by the past. I think you spent a little too long inside that base."

*laughs back* "Well, maybe you are correct in that regard."

At this point, I have begun to get a good grasp of the controls. You steer by tilting your legs slightly to the direction you want to go, but you must make sure they're stretched straight. The hands control altitude and speed. By pulling the wings closer together, I can gain speed at the cost of altitude. Enrique led me to fly under the bridge where the train was. I had a near-collision, but it felt thrilling. The sound of the water under the dimly lit bridge only adds to the suspense.

 **-Newcastle-upon-Tyne (Pons Aelii), Territory of the Eastern Borderlands, Provincia Maxima Caesariensis**

"There, by the coast. Can you see it?"

"A large town indeed."

Newcastle in the wizard world is a large port city which is still part of the Danelaw. It is also the main trading hub between England, Scotland, and the Viking Principalities in Norway. There were many wizards flying overhead, mostly on broomsticks or carpets, but I also saw a large Viking longboat which flew without a sail. The wizards also have ships on the water. They number little, but their size was considerable. They appear to be cargo ships.

"Hey, Platt, I think we're being followed."

"Should we land then?"

"No, there's no time. Let's try flying a bit west for now."

 **-Leeds (Leodensia), Territory of West Yorkshire, Provincia Maxima Caesariensis**

"Little bastard's been following us."

"Where? I don't see anyone."

"I don't blame you, Platt. It is dark around here. Let me handle this. Do you see that town over there? Keep flying to that direction and circle around it once you're there. I'll be back soon enough."

After saying that, Enrique turned to the back and flew away. I did exactly as I was told, flying to the town and circling above it. This town was quiet, unlike Newcastle. A third of the town was brighter than the other parts, so I decided to descend and see for myself. It turned out that the town had a massive abbey, which had soldiers wearing uniforms similar to what I saw at the church last Sunday. I circled around the town for about six or seven times before Enrique returned.

Also, when Enrique returned, his eyes were glowing a pale grey colour.

"Sorry for the minute mishap, Platt. That rat has been dealt with."

"I see, but, where are we now?"

"We're over Leeds. It is the site of one of the largest monasteries in all of England. I assume you have flown over it?"

"Yes."

*chuckles* "It's a good thing they did not pull you down for questioning. The Cistercians can be very touchy with their land and anyone flying above them. We now continue south to Leicester, then we swing east again to London."

I intend to ask him about his glowing eyes when I have the chance.

 **-Leicester (Ratae Corieltauvorum), Territory of the Central Shires, Provincia Flavia Caesariensis**

"That walled city. There can be no mistaking it. That's Leicester. Now we head east along the Roman road."

Apart from the walls, I could not make out any other details because we did not fly any closer to the city. Instead, we flew over a stone road lit with many torches like a runway. Both on the ground and on the air, I saw numerous wizards using the road as a guideline for their travels.

"Enrique, can I ask you something?"

"Go ahead."

"What do you know about Martin Smith?"

"Him? He's a stern but reliable man who always gets the job done, one way or the other. As he grows older he has softened up a bit, but you shouldn't let your guard down even when you're on his side."

"What do you mean by that last part?"

"To put this in a gentle way, rumour has it that Martin is losing his sanity. He's not at the point of absolute lunacy, but his actions are very unpredictable. Not even his closest of allies know of his schemes until he has put them in motion. Rest assured, however, that he will get the job done. Just do what he asks of you and everything will be fine."

I don't think a loss of sanity justifies his unpredictability. I believe he just has trust issues. Then again, I will need to see for myself.

 **-London (Londinium), Territory of the Thames River, Provincia Britannia Australis**

"We're finally here already."

"Is this London?"

"You will know this place better than I do, that's for certain."

In the wizard world, London was predominantly medieval, but several districts appear to have been built in the Victorian era. In fact, upon closer inspection, London was a patchwork of architectural styles of the past 500 years up to the 1970s at the most recent. Some buildings were still made of wood, while others were clearly made of concrete.

"London looks so, well, mixed up. It's like the architects can't decide which style to adhere to."

"Yes, I know."

"Why was London built like this?"

"Here's the thing, Platt. You know that there are a lot of gates which link the wizard world and the muggle world, right? Now, let's take King's Cross Station as an example. Up to the mid-1800s, there was a village there known as the Battle Bridge, which was the site of Queen Boudicca's last stand. The gate worked until the muggles decided to build a train station which demolished their side of the gate and rendered our side inoperable. In order to activate a new gate, we need to enchant a segment of the structure we want to use as an entryway, but King's Cross is enormous, so enchanting just one door or one wall will look silly. Therefore, we enchanted the entire structure, made a copy in the wizard world, and then we activate the new gates.

We've even installed the first railroad in the wizard world because of it, and it helped us a lot more than we had expected. When all flights are grounded due to bad weather, the trains will keep on rolling. A mere four years after the Britannia Railroad was established, Paris followed suit, and our informants in the muggle world began to aggressively lobby for the construction of new railroads and stations just so that we could use them for our own needs in the wizard world."

We flew through the north side of the city first, through Barnet, Camden, Islington, and over St. Paul's Cathedral. Interestingly, the buildings around the cathedral mostly appeared to be of Roman origin.

"This quarter wasn't modernized."

"This is the old quarter. The 2000-year-old Roman settlement. We maintained it as such for historical reasons. Look there, that's the Tower of London."

"Is it still used as a prison?"

"Prison? Platt, muggle buildings will not keep wizards locked in for long. That tower is used as the administrative headquarters for the Thames river patrol."

"Administrative?"

"It's a long story. Let's just say that it's a customs office."

We flew south over the Thames until we were near the Royal Observatory in Greenwich, but suddenly, Enrique began slowing down until I caught up with him. Then, as we were flying side by side, he said, "Platt, is something wrong? You aren't flying straight."

"No. The flyer looks fine for me."

"I'm not asking about the flyer, I'm asking you."

Enrique then turned around and began flying in the opposite direction, slowly descending closer to the ground while I kept tailing him.

"You can't hide your emotions, Platt. You seem sad. It is evident in the way you fly. Tell me, is something wrong?"

"Very well. You've got me on that one. It's that..."

"You wish to see your family one last time before we go? Very well. You lead."

We backtracked along the Thames again, following every curve and bend and flying over ships of all sizes, from the tiny yachts and rafts to large wooden frigates. We crossed the river wall into the Roman quarter, then out its other side near Westminster Abbey. From there, we flew past Vauxhall Cross, Battersea Park, Chelsea, and into Fulham, where I told Enrique to turn south. There, I used the River Wandle to guide my flight further south. However, I was caught unprepared for what came after.

Merton, although still part of London, was a piece of land owned by the clergy. While the rest of the town constantly evolved to mimic its muggle counterpart, Merton was exempt due to its status as ecclesial property. The reason for this was the Merton Priory, which no longer existed in the muggle world but still does in the wizard world. As a result, while some of the neighbouring houses have been modernized to the 20th century, Merton kept its late medieval look across the entire borough. In addition to that, in medieval London, it appears that the Merton Priory and several mills on the Wandle were the only buildings that were present. The remaining land was a foggy bog, the typical setting of horror films.

"You live here?! Merton?! Of all the vici (boroughs) in this munipicium (city) you just had to live in the one place south of the Thames where we could not land!" *sigh* "Well, maybe I can still do something."

"No. That's enough. A bird's eye view is enough. We need to reach Berlin, remember? I do not wish to trouble you further here."

"If you wish it so, then so it shall be. Let's continue to Dover."

…

A few minutes after we left London, we were attacked by a group of three wizards. Enrique tried firing back, but his bolts missed. For both sides, it is difficult to fire at a target flying so quickly.

"Throw a grenade, Platt!"

I threw a random grenade to the back. The air behind me then began to sparkle white, reflecting the moonlight. Upon seeing so, the group of wizards chasing us immediately stopped. One of them, who flew ahead of the group, suddenly looked like he choked on something before he vomited and fell down from his broomstick. The other two wizards then dived down sharply after him, cutting off pursuit.

"That must be the poison gas grenade."

"What did you put in there?"

"Aztec Datura, also known as Toloache. Some nasty stuff is contained in that plant. I also mixed it with the poison found on frogs from Transatlantica and other ingredients I best keep secret. If there is one thing I learned from the 1985 campaign, it's that the tribes across the Atlantic are masters at making poisons. Of course, adding import costs, that gas grenade is the second most expensive grenade I have.

Don't worry. Equipment costs are on me. Just don't use the blizzard grenade without warning."

 **Dover (Portus Dubris), Territory of Ashford-Canterbury, Provincia Britannia Australis**

"And on the bottom there you can see the castle, still used and repurposed over the years. There's a stone lighthouse near that. Don't fly too close, the fire is hot. To the right, you can see the White Cliffs."

In the wizard world, Dover is still the main port to reach France as it is in the muggle world. The completion of the tunnel in the muggle world may change this, but for now we still need to use ships and hovercrafts to cross. Because of its importance, a castellum (fortress) was constructed not far north, near where Richborough is supposed to be. Dover itself had buildings almost entirely from the Roman period, with gleaming white walls on houses and stone roads lined neatly to ensure optimal flow of goods from the harbour.

"It's all Roman here. Do any Englishmen live here?"

"A few. Remember what I said yesterday, about the fact that the Republic had numerous trading posts? Dover is one of them. This port is still under control of the Republican senate in Rome. The English operate another port on the west: Folkestone."

"So everyone here are considered Roman citizens?"

"Yes."

"What's the difference between the two?"

"Dover links trade from Ireland, England, Wales, Scotland, and Cornwall to Spain and Italy, which are mostly Roman controlled. Folkestone links trade to France and Belgica."

"Are there any ferries operating in this location?"

"To Spain or Norway, mostly. If you want to head to France you can just fly there on broomsticks."

 **Crossing the Channel (Fretum Gallicum)**

It is one thing to fly over land, it is another to fly over the seas. In addition to the salty air, the winds over the sea were wild and unpredictable. If I recall my father's stories, although Dover to Calais was only 40 km apart, the unpredictable weather in this place made the Allied command switch the landing zones to Normandy instead. As we were flying, the cloud cover overhead obscured the moonlight, and the wind would sometimes change direction.

And as if that's not enough, I had an unfortunate accident over the water. It all started when we saw this small wooden sloop on the channel sailing alone, away from all the hustle of wizards flying in the air, with no torches or oil lamps or anything that can give away its position. I would have missed it, if Enrique didn't decide to do a bombing run.

"Hey, Platt, follow me. You see that ship over there? We will dive down on it. During that dive, fire as many bolts as you can."

"Wait, where's the ship?"

"No time to explain. Let's go!"

Enrique fired a white bolt like that of a flare to the direction of France as we approached from England. It was a diversion intended to make the ship's crew look the other way. Only then can I see the ship. As soon as they turned, Enrique dived sharply down and dropped around a dozen bombs from his pouch.

"As that muggle Pedro would say, Diga boa noite, p-a."

The boat went up in flames in a matter of seconds. The flames didn't only burn, but white sparks also flew everywhere, which exploded once they hit the water. I followed behind and pulled the strings quickly, firing around 10 bolts or so, but I did not know if they hit. The strings were stiff and hard to pull, so I couldn't fire any faster. As I descended further, the air pressure to my head was so intense that I struggled to keep my eyes open. I also began losing consciousness, feeling light headed and sleepy all of a sudden. I used the last of my strength to try and level the flyer again. Only then did the air pressure lower down far enough to the point where I can open my eyes again.

When I finally did, I found that I was much closer to the ship than I had hoped. Even though I had levelled the flyer, I was flying straight to the burning ship's hull, skirting less than 1 meter above the water's surface. Immediately, I pointed the flyer upwards and lurched for altitude. It was a near miss. I was probably only 30-40 cm above the burning masts, and the left wing caught fire like a twig to a candle.

"Platt! Get off that flyer!"

"How? This cloak is strapped to the flyer!"

"Take off your cloak!"

It was difficult for me to take off my cloak, as it was rather tight. However, I did manage to escape after the left wing blew up. The shockwave from the blast ejected me from my cloak, and I fell straight to the water, bleeding in the left arm. The cloak also fell from the flyer not long after. The flyer itself, however, spun around like a top and blew up to pieces when the fire reached the right wing. Debris fell over the water near the French coast, while Enrique came down and circled near the water around me.

"Well, that was a close call. I'm glad you got off on time. Sorry for that, but I had no other choice but to blast the wings off. Are you injured?"

At that point, I was in some sort of trance, feeling somewhere between shocked, angered, and hurt. The salty water washing the wound added insult to injury.

"Bleeding like this. Let's see. You should stay alive, though not for long. Sonorus. *unintelligible Latin speech*"

I still gazed emptily and did not answer, trying to hold the pain of the seawater mixing with the blood.

"Just hang in there. That white flare should attract the garrison of the forts from both sides of The Channel. They will be here soon."

I waded in the water for about five more minutes, with Enrique flying nearby and repelling any hostile wizard that came in. Then, a wizard flying overhead on a flying horse swept down and signalled his friends. It could be "her," I don't quite know. My memory of what came next was hazy at best. I remembered being carried on a hard, flat surface, maybe on a cart. I remembered that at one time there were six wizards around me, one wearing a Roman soldier's uniform and another wearing late medieval armour. By the time I came to my senses, I was sitting in a meadow on a plateau overlooking the Channel on the French side, holding a glass bottle quarter-filled by a red liquid inside. The time was 4:11 AM.

"I see you're back. You're quite a handful, Platt."

"My apologies."

"No, I should be the one apologizing. You did not have any mastery of flight, yet I ordered you to follow me to dive down on that sloop. Inadvertently I had put yourself in danger, and nearly got you killed. The pull of gravity can increase to great amounts when you are diving down like so."

"What should we do now?"

"The informant should not be too far away. Can you walk?"

"Yes."

"Very well. He should be there."

Looking back at this entry, I noticed that I forgot to ask Enrique on who Pedro was. I'll ask him when he wakes up.

 **Calais (Portus Caletum),** **Territoire de** **Thérouanne** **, Provincia Gallia Belgica**

We walked through the meadow in the middle of the night. My arm was still bleeding somewhat, but the pain had mostly subsided. The meadow was mostly empty apart for a few huts further inland. Then, we came across a house which looked out of place for its time. It was a muggle house made of cement and brick instead of wood, and looked like it was built sometime slightly before WW2.

The insides of the house were slightly more modern. From the windows, I saw the walls were painted light green and light blue. There was a bookshelf filled with military records and photo albums, and there was a gramophone on a small end table. The floor tiles were similar to the one in my childhood home in San Francisco, and I can see early colour photographs of several people.

"Gustave!"

I placed my shoes on the porch overlooking the sea and stood waiting atop a black mat, waiting to be let through the small wood-and-glass door into the house. The porch had little on it, apart from a wooden chair and coffee table, there just wasn't anything else. I'm getting a feeling that whoever lives here doesn't get too many guests. Then again, this house is pretty far away from town, and even if it were in town it would look odd to the local villagers. It would be like having that one nerdy neighbour whose house looks like something out of a sci-fi film set in the 25th century.

"Qui va là?"

A few moments later, an old man came out who looked older than Enrique. He wasn't wearing Renaissance era clothes like regular wizards, but instead he was wearing muggle clothes from the 1950s: A grey coloured polo shirt, slightly baggy black trousers, and a pair of oval glasses with metal frames. His face and skin were scarred left and right. He looked similar to my cousin Abel, but with a longer face and less distance between the eyes and the nose. Also, as expected, his hair was completely white.

"Oh, the muggle. Bonjour to all of you. Come inside quick, I've been expecting you."

The air was slightly warmer inside, and it felt calming to finally sit down after being strapped to the flying machine all this time. We also treated ourselves to some warm water, cooked on a gas stove reminiscent of the 1960s. He talked with Enrique for a time in Latin, but then he glanced at my face, and began staring at me. Then, he stood up from his chair and walked to the sofa I was sitting on, and started to examine my face meticulously.

"Is there something you want?"

"Muggle, have we met before?"

"Sorry?"

"I'm asking, have we met before. Your face is awfully familiar."

"No, I can assure you, this is our first encounter."

Enrique grabbed Gustave's wrists and said, "Gustave, this muggle is tired and the sun will soon rise. Can you show us our quarters?"

"Hey! Don't be so hard on my old bones! Yes, I'll show you. Follow me downstairs."

Gustave rolled the rug on the floor halfway, revealing a trapdoor. Beneath it was a stairway which led to a small but well-lit concrete corridor, lined with yellow electric lights. It was like being inside a bunker.

"Do not feel secure around these walls. They will not help you once the war begins."

The rooms were also military-grade. Floor, wall, and ceiling, all were made of concrete. The only place to sleep was on a sleeping bag like the ones used by the Japanese in the Pacific War. The door was made of iron, secured with two locks, and had a small eye slit which can be opened or closed. There were no tables, no toilets, no place at all to put your belongings save for a line of ten hooks protruding out of the wall to hang clothes. The lighting was provided by a small electric light on the ceiling, connected directly to a circuit board and not a switch. To turn out the light, I had to cut power to the circuits.

Where did this old man get his electricity from?

I wonder if my father went through the same thing during the war, sleeping in bunkers like these.

…

After sitting on the sleeping bag for some time, I must admit that it felt comfortable, not unlike the beds in my house. The room was also warm and dry, ideal for a good night's sleep. Yet, I'm still not sleepy thanks to that whiskey. I might as well see what kind of broomstick Enrique was using.

Also, it gets pitch black when I turn off the light. I need to use my flashlight to avoid tripping on my bags.

'

3 July 1987, 07:09

My suspicion was correct. The front side of this broomstick concealed a miniature telescope. I don't know why Enrique would need something like this, considering how inaccurate wizard guns are, but I suppose he has his reasons. Maybe it is used to scout ahead before making an attack.

'

3 July 1987, 20:09

I'm not afraid of the dark, but sleeping in a cold, dark, quiet room like that would make anyone feel uneasy. Back in London, there will still be some form of noise in the night, normally from cars, but here, it is completely empty. Desolate. In horror films, you know that the killer is close from the sounds in the night. Here, the silence becomes a horror in itself. Will anyone hear you when you scream? How do you know you're alone? Are you being watched without you ever knowing? It took me a while to get to sleep that dawn. I haven't felt this restless since Okinawa.

I woke up at 4:33 PM, or, more exactly, I turned the lights back on at 4:33 PM. Since the room was so dark and quiet, I couldn't tell whether or not I was "up" and I may have repeatedly fallen asleep again. I only found that I was up when I reached for my flashlight which I placed beside the sleeping bag. When I came back upstairs, I saw Gustave outside, inspecting a cart filled with wood and fabric.

"Mr. Gustave?"

"You're up already, Anglaiser? Oh, right, muggles sleep less than we do. Well, see here, Platt, the flying machine you used broke over The Channel, and I don't think I can build a new one quickly. Are you in a hurry?"

"It appears so."

"Please, answer more firmly."

"I don't know what you mean, but I am going to Berlin to help in the Russia issue."

"Berlin? Are you, by any chance, assigned to Martin Smith?"

"Assigned? Yes, probably. He sent a letter for my arrival."

*sigh* "I had hoped that it did not have to come to this. It will take me days to build a new flying machine but considering the circumstances you are facing there doesn't seem to be any other way. I'll talk with Enrique about this."

"About what?"

"You're part of the war against the Russian evil wizards, right? They operate directly below the Great Council, and so if I want to intervene I need to ask that Spaniard's permission."

"Intervene? Permission? What are you talking about?"

"You don't know?! Don't they tell you that during apprenticeship? Wait, when were you recruited?"

"Just a few days ago."

Gustave kicked the cart and appeared to be swearing in French as he walked back into his house. I followed him inside, but as I walked through the door and looked to the left, Gustave had already pointed his wand to my direction.

"Accio."

A white bolt then whizzed past my hair. Before I could react, I saw one of the wooden chairs in the dining room fly towards me. The seat hit my knees and I assumed a sitting position almost outright, stopping right in front of Gustave.

"Locomotor Mortis."

This time, I did not see any bolt shoot out of the wand, but I felt a chill around my legs, as if they had been chained by cold steel. As a result, I could not move away from the seat.

"Your story sounds vague, Anglaiser. Recruited a few days ago? I will need to inquire further. Answer my questions properly, or I will dismiss you as a spy and end your miserable existence here."

"What are you doing?!"

"First question! Who sent you here?"

"Theodore Walcott! The base commander in Scotland!"

Gustave took out a scroll similar to the map scroll I have, but in a smaller size. He panned the map to get information about Scotland, and slowly nodded his head.

"Second question! If you are a muggle, who brought you here?"

"Arthur Trelawney! He oversees the production of food in the underground farms!"

"Third question! What is your business in Germany?"

"I am told to seek out a man named Martin Smith in Berlin! He will tell me what to do next."

"Fourth question! The Scot's invasion plans. Tell me everything you know!"

"They plan to attack Riga, then to capture Tikhvin before the end of August. Next, they will either take Lake Onega or Lake Beloye, to be used as a staging ground before reaching the Dvina River at September. From there, they will mount one last attack to the Ural Mountains, and to the Ob River if possible, before ending the campaign in November."

"Yes, yes. Très bon, Anglaiser."

Suddenly, Gustave pulled out a rapier from his cloak and pointed it straight to my throat.

"Or, trop bon would be more appropriate, I believe. The information you just shared is something no wizard from the Caledonia Front should know, save for several select base commanders who are involved in the planning. Both General Matthew and General Auguste had explicitly mentioned to all of them to keep it a secret until a few days before their deployment, which is still about two weeks away at the fastest. If you have such extensive and detailed knowledge of their plans, it either means that you have a very active imagination, or you have stolen them somehow. Considering the amount of detail in your story, the latter explanation appears more logical to me."

"!"

"Normally I would just drive this deeper into your throat, but I'm curious as to how you managed to retrieve such priceless information. Therefore, I have decided to spare you, on the sole condition that you work for us. But first, I need to put you away for a moment."

Slowly, with his left arm, Gustave raised his wand to eye level.

"Join us, or die. I'll look forward to your answer. Choose wisely. Stupefy."

…

That was the last memory I recalled of that evening. When I came to my senses, I was lying on a bed in Gustave's bedroom. I did not know it at the time since it was very different from the rest of the house. To put it simply, it looked frozen in 1850, about 100 years behind every other part of the house. It was like a typical bedroom you would find in paintings, fitting somewhere in the Victorian era but with a heavy French tinge. The walls were plaster, painted with a light blue colour, and the furniture were primarily made of veneered wood, metal, or a mix of both save for the carpet on the floor. The floor itself was polished stone, similar to a ballroom, which is cold to step on.

For a moment, I thought that I was brought to another place, until Gustave showed up at the door with Enrique. This time, Gustave was wearing a French soldier's uniform from WW2, with the Cross of Lorraine emblazoned on his upper left sleeve.

"Platt, I'm sorry for what happened earlier. It was a big misunderstanding."

"No, it's fine. Wait, how did you know my name?"

"It was in your transfer orders," said Enrique.

"Enrique told me everything. You were fortunate he woke up not long after I dragged you downstairs."

"Fortunate? Gustave, I may be a heavy sleeper, but I can always sense trouble when it comes my way."

"Well, you're slightly correct in that regard. You are one of those "specially trained" units to begin with."

"Don't dig up the past, Gustave. Shouldn't it be time to properly introduce yourself to this muggle?"

"Very well."

Gustave went inside, stood straight, and gave me a salute. Then, with a loud voice, he said: "Je m'appelle Gustave Marier, du 48eme Regiment d'infanterie de la 1eme Armée. It shall be my duty to protect you until we reach Berlin."

"Um, thanks."

"On the contrary, Platt, I should be the one thanking you."

Before I had the chance to speak, Gustave pulled out a photo of him on a stretcher, shot in the left arm. On his side was my father, Hector Platt. Immediately, I was stunned. The photo was dated 25 May 1940, so it should be around the time of the Dunkirk evacuations.

"You know him, don't you? Now I remember why your face was so familiar. When Enrique told me your name, I immediately recalled this picture from years past, when I was still an active informant for the West Francia Defence League. In 1940, I was shot in the left arm, and since there were muggles everywhere I couldn't take my potions. It was at that time, that a lance corporal named Hector Platt came in and dragged me back to friendly lines. We talked to each other throughout the day, and he forged an oath of friendship where we promised to each other that we will meet again if we both survived the war. According to the transfer orders, you were born in 1949, so that means he survived the war.

If you had not arrived here, I would have forgotten about that promise. Now, pray tell, is he still alive?"

"Yes, but he moved to America in 1947. To San Francisco."

I told him the address of my childhood home.

"Wait, if your name is Irving, then that means you were Hector's firstborn son, right?"

"Yes, but how did you know?"

"Hector told me about your family's naming convention. It was a tradition started by Chester Platt, your ancestor who was born in 1772. The firstborn son's name was always one alphabet letter following the father. This resulted in a chain of names from Chester, David, Edward, Franklin, Gilbert, Hector, and finally Irving to represent the letter I. I assume this means your son's name starts with J?"

"Yes, I named my son Jeffrey to continue the tradition."

"Sorry to interrupt, but are you done?" asked Enrique. "We need to reach Berlin before dawn, remember?"

"Right. Follow me, doctor."

"Do we have a new flyer already," I asked.

"No, I've got something better."

…

We walked outside of the house, where I saw an old car from the 1940s. It was a Citroën 15CV painted with camouflage colours, and the spare tyre at the back of the car was replaced with a set of hooks. It had several bullet holes in different parts, but the entire thing looks clean, as if it was frequently washed. As I walked closer to the door, I found that it still had a new car smell.

"This car has served me well during my time in the French Resistance. I lost count of how many NAZIs we shot up during our great escapes, with me at the wheel and the others at the back. I liked this car so much that, in 1950, I brought it back to the wizard world with me and enchanted it so that it can fly. It cost me my old house, but in the end it was worth it."

I wonder when we can have flying cars in the muggle world. People would kill for them.

"It looks as if it was built only weeks ago."

"That's the power of our restoration spells. Now, before you get any ideas, no, it doesn't work on humans or living beings. Though, the spells are of the same family as necromancy, I'll tell you that. Let's fly."

I opened the door on the car's front, but Gustave stopped me before I had the chance to enter.

"No, you sit at the back. That way, you can shoot left and right."

"Shoot?"

"Yes, shoot. Platt, meet little Tommy."

On the back seat, I saw a violin case. Anyone who has seen enough gangster films would know what to expect. Inside of it was a Thompson SMG, with multiple block magazines.

"Now you see it, now you don't."

Gustave then closed the violin case and opened it again, this time revealing a real violin.

"How did you do that?"

"A magician never reveals his tricks, but since we're at war, I'll show you the trick on the condition that you do not write it down in your petit journal book except for two words: secret switch."

The real violin displaces as much volume as the gun, so I assume that it was built similarly to the wizard bags which can contain items far larger than the bag itself, provided that it can fit into the mouth. Inside the gun compartment, I also saw a piece of paper containing a step-by-step picture guide on how to assemble the gun and fire it.

"Some members of the French Resistance were illiterate, or in some cases they came from other nations and spoke little French. I had to draw a picture guide to help them."

"Do you have a gun of your own?"

"This car is a weapon in itself. You'll see what I mean if we encounter several of those death eater ships. Accursed Anglaisers. It's not enough for them to terrorize their tiny island. They need to raid the continent too. Ironically, it is the Vikings who now serve as a vanguard against them."

"Vikings?"

"Normans. They reside in the coastlines of what I like to call the 3C region: Cherbourg, Caen, and the Pays de Caux, all linked by a Roman road and no more than 25 km from the sea. They've been here since the time of Chief Rollo, and if you saw them today they don't look too different from an average Frenchman. However, they still follow Nordic traditions, and their anti-raiding measures are the best in France. They are one of the oldest constituent members of the West Francia Defence League. Oh, and their language is also different. It's like a mix of Danelaw Norse and Old English. Some don't speak French so we had to communicate in Latin."

Gustave started the car's engines by opening the hood and using some sort of glowing blue stone on it. Slowly, I can hear the engines start, but it didn't sound like a car engine. It sounded more like a fan.

"Has the car warmed up yet?"

"Warmed up may not be the best term to use here, but, no, it's not ready yet. Just a little more."

"How can you tell if this car is warmed up?"

"It will stop humming."

As time goes on, I noticed that the fan-like sound is slowly fading away. About 1 minute later, it had faded beyond audible range. A few seconds later, Gustave asked: "Platt, is the sound gone for you?"

"Yes," I replied.

"You were born in 1949, so you're 38. That means we need to wait 68 more seconds."

"68 more?"

"It's a rule of thumb. My hearing has gone worse as I age older. If I am driving alone I would wait five full minutes after the sound has faded away before flying. But, I think we can go now. Let's fly."

'

4 July 1987, 03:51

And happy treason day, America, as my father used to say.

My sleeping schedule is wrecked thanks to yesterday's whiskey and it may take me a few days to normalize. I am now writing this in muggle West Berlin, in an old rundown tenement in Kreuzberg which appears to be built over 100 years ago. This place is modest enough to sleep in for the night, but if I were to be given ten thousand Pounds to live here for a month, I think I'll pass.

Damn, the last time I stayed up this late was during my university years. I know that it's bad for health, but homework must be done no matter what. Maybe I'll send some of the whiskey to Isaac, who is currently studying in Oxford.

I best write what happened during this second phase before I forget any information.

 **Dunkirk (Portus Dunquerka),** **Territoire de Thérouanne** **, Provincia Gallia Belgica**

The car lifted off like a helicopter, only with no noise at all. It was so silent inside that you can hear a pin drop. Enrique was flying outside on his broomstick while I was busy assembling the gun.

"800 km to Berlin. Let's go."

There were three speedometer needles, coloured white, blue, and green, all of which can glow in the dark. The white speedometer needle increased slowly from 0 to 100, then it stopped and the blue needle started moving, slowly increasing from 0 to 50. I assumed that means this car is going at 150.

"Can this car go faster than 150? It has another needle, right?"

"Yes, but if I go that fast your friend there won't be able to catch up. Broomsticks can go up to 150 on average, and military-grade ones can go to 200. The fastest one commercially available is the Firebolt Broom, clocking at slightly above 225 if I wasn't mistaken. Some experimental ones can go even faster but the main problem there is ensuring the rider can still hang on."

"What is the maximum speed of this car?"

"I forgot. The enchantress told me decades ago but I never drive above 200 so I don't know."

"Are there any faster means of travel aside from broomsticks?"

"Numerous enough."

We began flying along the coast, over a medieval town which looked somewhat like Venice. Half of the houses were on the land, and the other half was on water.

"See that town, Platt? That's Dunkirk. A fishing village here in our world. If we had that many ships back in 1940 maybe both the French and British troops can be rescued. Maybe. But alas, if I went on the boat to England, I wouldn't have been able to write a book about the French Resistance. It was a modest hit in the wizard world. Reached the top ten in Paris and stayed there for a month."

"So you are a writer?"

"Partially correct. Informants need to publish reports about the muggle world to the local ministry, but they still hold, um, what's that muggle term for that again? Intellectual Property?"

"Yes."

"Alright. We still hold the intellectual property, and we can publish it if we want to. After hiring a scribe to assist me with the wording, I began publishing it in 1951. Wizards are often curious about the muggle world, and tales of war or scientific advancement in particular will certainly attract their attention."

 **Brugge (Bruccia),** **Territoire de Tournai** **, Provincia Gallia Belgica**

We continued along the mostly dark coastline for nearly an hour until we reached another town larger than Dunkirk. It was situated on an inlet, and slightly further north I saw a small wooden fort or camp. Most of the town was made of wood and thatched roofs, and the buildings appeared to be clustered very closely together. There were a lot of wizards flying in the air, but our headlights should suffice as a warning to adjacent flyers.

"Welcome to Brugge. As you can see, we did not let the Zwin silts hamper trade."

"I know. I've read about the rivalry between Brugge and Antwerp. But, why did they build a fort made of wood up north? Richborough and Dover both had stone walls.

"That's a museum. It was built by Julius Caesar before he went to Britain, and the structure and layout is thus very obsolete. It can defend well against muggle attacks at the time, but these days, cannons will tear the walls apart quickly and musketeers will make quick work of those pouring out of the gates. In addition to that, with a small squadron of well-trained wizards, an air attack would cripple it within minutes like what happened to Eben Emael. It would be best to convert it into a tourist site for extra revenue."

"Roman history is very well preserved here."

"Well, up until the time of Merlin, the Romans were the ones who advanced the science of magic the most. It would be reasonable for us to keep some structures intact so that we will not forget."

"Is this the same Merlin in the legend of King Arthur?"

"Yes, but the muggles highlight Arthur's achievement and only wrote about ten percent of what Merlin did. I'll make it short. Merlin was the one who decentralized the world of magic. He pulled it away from the Roman academic elite and quite literally gave it to the masses. He developed the concept of practical magic, and laid the foundations for an educational system still in use to this day. Furthermore, his methods revolutionized the way we thought about magic itself, which I would not go into because it will take a long time and you, as a muggle, probably wouldn't understand anyway."

 **Antwerpen (Andoverpis), Territorium van Cambrai, Provincia Gallia Belgica**

"Down there, you can see the trade town of Antwerp."

"You wizards certainly spend a lot of time trading."

"Yes, but we don't only trade for money. Information and knowledge are also best sought in these cities, patronized by the city council. Science is a commodity that is greatly valued, and maybe arts too. Antwerp houses one of the largest artisan quarters in Europe."

"Such as painters and sculptors?"

"Not just that. Alchemy thrives there, and if the wizards have knowledge of modern science Antwerp may have the capacity to develop nuclear weapons. You should know that we have two classes of alchemy: academic and artisan. Antwerp's research hall is one of the best places to learn academic alchemy and the artisans can also teach you about theirs."

"Aren't nuclear weapons a bit of a stretch?"

"Once this war is over, you should take a look inside a research hall for once. Then you'll see what I'm talking about. They look modest on the outside, but their insides are enormous. It's like walking into a different city altogether. Rows and rows of scrolls that appear to go on forever, but you will, strangely, always feel at home. Now, we move further west."

 **Eindhoven (Eindovia), Territorium van Lidje, Provincia Germania Inferior**

"And down there, you can see what happens when a trading town is left to rot."

Eindhoven has had a troubled history in the muggle and wizard world. It was built between two streams and a trade route runs through it, which should have ensured modest prosperity. Unfortunately for the wizards, the town was burned down by Spanish forces in 1583 before they managed to make a duplicate. It was then decided that the wizards would just build a new town from scratch as a farming settlement instead.

Only to have it burned down twice more in 1756 and 1881.

"First one was because of an accident. Second one was because death eaters took over the city and didn't want the Dutch Ministry of Magic to take it back intact."

"You don't just burn an entire city by accident. And even if it was, couldn't you douse the flame?"

"Not if it was infused with dark arts. Sure, if you're alone and the magic is weak, you can just step on a withered snapdragon to break the curse, but that wasn't the case in 1756."

We flew over the fields and the mostly wooden town, past a stone castle a little north, and continued heading west to the Meuse River.

"Should we get Enrique in here?"

"He insisted on staying outside."

"You mentioned earlier that Enrique was specially trained. What do you mean by that?"

"I'll answer in his words: Don't dig up the past."

"Alright. I don't think this next one counts as digging up the past. When we were flying over Leicester, I saw that Enrique's eyes were glowing."

"Say no more. You are going to Martin's unit, right? You'll find out how to make your eyes glow. Trust me. Anyway, want some amandes?"

Gustave tossed a small pouch with no warped space filled with almonds.

"Is this all for me?"

"Yes. I don't get guests very often and these amandes are about to spoil. I needed someone to get rid of them. I offered them to Enrique earlier but he refused."

"Well, thanks."

The almonds were unlike anything grown in the muggle world. It was hard on the outside, soft on the inside, and also sweeter.

"They're as sweet as chocolate."

"Chocolate in the wizard world is as bitter as muggle coffee, just for your information. Only saying "chocolate" implies that you are referring to the fruit. But, yes, they're like bon-bons."

 **Wesel (Castra Vetera/Ulpia Traiana), Territorium van Kleve, Provincia Germania Inferior**

"From the Rhine! There! Open fire!"

"They are still too far!"

A classic pirate move. Three wagons flying Roman banners suddenly raised black flags and some twenty raiders flew outside. Gustave later claimed that they must have seen his flying car and thought that he was rich, and decided to rob him. Enrique detached to call reinforcements from the legionary garrison, while we tried to hold off the attackers. I tried shooting them, but all my shots keep missing as I couldn't line up the sights.

"Then hold on tight!"

Gustave sped the car up to 200 and started flying in circles. Then he slowed down to 30 and descended slightly above the tree line. When the raiders got close, he deployed a smoke screen, shot a bolt outside, and landed the car in the middle of the forest.

"That was anticlimactic."

"What were you expecting?"

"I thought we are to fly away at 300 or something."

"Fly? No chance, Platt. There are too many of them and we shouldn't take unnecessary risks."

"Didn't you say that broomsticks can't catch up at that speed?"

"The problem isn't with the brooms! The car's engines may explode like a firework if we go too fast for too long! I've seen it happen before. Maybe I'll do it if I'm driving alone, or if the car was still brand new, but Martin will kill me if he knows you died on the way. Now follow me."

Gustave climbed to the top of the forest canopy with relative ease, gripping and leaping from branch to branch like a monkey. I struggled to keep up, but I did finally managed to reach the top. From there, we can see a massive walled fortress with what appeared to be searchlights. Upon closer inspection with Gustave's binoculars, I saw that those searchlights were braziers covered with mirrors.

"Good. They've been dispatched."

"Who?"

"The Republican Thirtieth Legion. That massive fortress is their primary garrison. Those brigands have just signed their own death warrants, attacking not just any Roman citizen, but a Centurion Princeps in the Home Army. He outranks every centurion garrisoned in this exclave."

"Home army? Exclave? At this rate, I will need a book to keep up with this new info."

"Short version: The New Republican Army consists of the Home Army and Foreign Legions. The legions are kept for novelty's sake and are usually only garrison troops like the Tirailleurs, but the home army undergoes constant revision and reorganization to keep it as one of the best in the world. Home army commanders usually have higher authority than the foreign legion commanders. Long version: Visit a library."

We waited atop the tree for a few minutes, watching the fortress from afar. I saw at least 100 troops dispatched from the fortress, wearing uniforms similar to British Redcoats but with more yellow and white colours present. Some were wearing capes, cloaks, or metal helmets. They spread out in groups of ten and began searching for the raiders. Once they found one, they shot a white bolt to the sky, and the fortress would send more men to the site. At one point, one group flew over our position. Gustave shot a green bolt towards the direction of the fortress before they managed to shoot a white bolt, and they immediately dispersed and formed a defensive perimeter on the ground and on the air. A few seconds later, Enrique rejoined us.

"Sorry to keep you waiting. We should leave now, Platt," said Enrique. "This time we'll take the Rhine Highway."

"One more thing, beyond the Rhine River is the Holy Roman Empire, with its thousand baronies and convoluted borders. We couldn't count on the Republicans to defend us anymore like what happened here," added Gustave.

We climbed down the tree and returned to the car, waited for another three minutes for it to warm up, and flew away eastward, leaving the Rhine river behind. Enrique was injured during that attack, suffering from a burnt arm, so he opted to stay inside the car with us. At that time, I thought that the worst was over, but it turns out we still had many surprises that night.

 **Haltern am See (Aliso), Territorium von Westfalen, Provincia Germania Magna II**

"The Weser branch of the Rhine highway…"

"Is something wrong, Enrique?" asked Gustave.

"Hey, muggle, do you know about the battle of Teutoburg Forest?"

"No, never heard of it."

"It was a shameful defeat in the early days of the First Empire almost two thousand years ago, with the total loss of three legions. To avenge that defeat, we attacked the Germans again five years later. The highway we're flying over was the old invasion route."

I may need to add that a "highway" in the wizard world isn't a physical road. Rather, it is a set of braziers placed on the ground with some watchtowers every few kilometres. The metal on the braziers was similar to bronze and very reflective to light, making them easy to spot in daytime.

"65% copper, 30% zinc, 3% iron forged in a blast furnace with dolomite rocks, traces of lead, arsenic, charcoal, and gold. These metals are to be forged with draconic levels of fire, then quickly cast and frozen over. We call it Carolingian Orichalcum. They are resistant to heat and cold, they do not rust, and if made into armour it can take on blunt and sharp weapons."

We then flew near a fort which looked like a smaller version of the Legionary fortress at Weser. It lies in the middle of a large farmland, but I didn't see any houses on the field. The fort itself was also dark, as if it had been abandoned.

"What's that fort over there?" I asked.

"That appears to be an old outpost," said Enrique. "I don't really know why it was abandoned."

"Could they have been attacked?"

"Attacked? This close to the highway's watchtowers? No chance. It appears to be a storehouse for the farms around it, and perhaps also as the home of the peasants," said Gustave. "Rather than waste money to tear down old defensive structures, some counts prefer to just give it to the peasants."

 **Hamelin (Idistavisus), Territorium von Weser-Minden, Provincia Germania Magna II**

"Look on the left. That's Hamelin."

"Look to the front. What's that ship doing?"

I did not manage to get a good look at Hamelin because of that flying ship, which, mere seconds after Enrique pointed it out, fired off its cannons.

"Grapeshot incoming!"

"Protego Anterius!"

Enrique opened his door and fired a pale blue bolt which formed a shield on the front side of the car. When the shrapnel came in contact with the shield, it immediately burst into flames and likely vaporized.

"You are quick with your hand, Centurion. Muggle, take the wheel for a moment. I'm taking the cannon."

Gustave slowed the car down to 20 km/h, drank a small vial of yellow-coloured potion, pulled out a rope from a compartment underneath his chair and climbed up to the car's roof as I moved to the driver seat. I can then hear him crawl to the back of the car, followed by the trunk opening and the sound of something being strapped to the back of the car. Suddenly, the car slowly tilted upwards.

"Muggle, keep the car level! The pitch can be adjusted with the lever on your right. Push it upwards a bit!"

I pushed the lever upwards just enough so that the car flew straight again. Suddenly, Gustave popped up on the front windscreen. He was carrying several lengths of rope and wearing a pair of earmuffs.

"What are you doing down there?"

"Not now, Platt. I can't hear you right now. We'll need to burn that ship first. Can you turn the car around 90 degrees to the left? And, make sure that all the doors and windows are tightly shut. This will get really loud."

I turned the car left so that our side was facing their side. At first, I doubt that a single cannon would be able to take down a ship that large, as it was roughly 40 to 50 times larger than our car and there was no water to help it sink. However, I suddenly felt the car shake and saw an artillery shell fly straight to the ship. When it struck, I saw a magnificent flash of yellowish white, followed by fires raging on the front end of the ship. Thanks to the fire, I saw an odd looking cube at the centre of the ship. I took the binoculars that Gustave left on his front seat, and saw that the wizards were frantically trying to prevent the fires from reaching that cube, using a multitude of spells. While I was looking, I felt another shake and saw another shell fly. The second shell struck near the cube, and almost immediately, fires broke out on every gun deck, forcing the wizards to abandon the attack as they scrambled away from the ship.

"I'll take that back, merci."

Suddenly, I saw that Gustave was sitting on the back seat, holding a yellow piece of string.

"When did you come back?"

"I climbed back in before firing the second shot."

"What kind of cannon was that?!"

"A British 4.5 inch medium gun, using white phosphorus shells. I salvaged it in the Netherlands in 1945 and brought it back for repairs, then I got the instructions manual in 1946.

"That thing weighs 5 tons at the very least. How did you get it into place?"

"With the ropes."

I stuck my head out the window and looked down. There, I saw the gun barrel sticking out a fair distance away from the car, tied with multiple lengths of rope. The ropes appear to sling to the front and back sides of the car.

"So that's what the hooks are for. But, what was in the potion you drank?"

"It was a special concoction made of herbs from Asia to keep me warm in the air outside. At this age, I shouldn't be exposed to the night wind for too long."

"I thought it was a strength potion."

"It's not necessary. The rope and hook positions have been calculated to optimize mechanical advantage and my diet has kept me strong over the years."

"So, should I give the wheel back to you now?"

"No, you drive. I mean, you would likely not get an opportunity to drive a flying car again, right? We'll switch again in Berlin since landing the car is a little tricky. Just follow the highway and try not to collide with any night flyers."

"You will need to change lanes in Tulisurgum. Make sure you note that," added Enrique.

"Brunswick! Use English names, please," commented Gustave.

"I can't help it, I'm Roman. Besides, that map the muggle brought can translate it for me. Would you like some chocolatine?"

Gustave appeared crossed by that remark and began arguing with Enrique, stating the word _chocolatine_ repeatedly in a berating tone. At one point, he took the almond pouch from my hand and sprinkled it on the bread, pointing to it and referring to it as an _amandetine_.

"What are you arguing about?"

"Stay out of this, Anglaiser," said Gustave. "Domestic French problems."

"No, present it to him. Muggle, what do you call this bread?"

Enrique presented me with a small piece of bread with chocolate filling. On top of the bread were the almonds Gustave sprinkled on earlier.

"This piece of chocolate bread? You're making a fuss over this?"

*sigh* "Right, they did not have this debate in England. This piece of bread is known as _chocolatine_ in the southern parts of France, but everywhere else it's called _pain au chocolat_."

"I had assumed someone your age would at least be wiser than this."

"My apologies, monsieur…" said Enrique in a condescending tone.

"Monsieur? Enrique, how long are you planning to hide it?"

Enrique replied to that question with a rather long rant in Latin. I couldn't make out the full sentence, but he did mention the words "homo laeti" multiple times. After that little argument, Enrique asked me to slow down and then took off on his broomstick again, leaving us both inside the quiet car.

 **Braunschweig (Tulisurgum), Territorium von Niedersachsen, Provincia Germania Magna III**

Driving in a flying car was actually rather boring, not too different from a normal car. I kept my speed constant at 200, but even at that speed I had no trouble avoiding other wizards. I should mention that night flyer wizards hardly ever fly alone. They fly together in formation like birds, and their broomsticks will often have lanterns to show their position. Occasionally, I would come across a flying motorcycle, a glider, a flying stagecoach like the one in the old Cinderella film, and even what appears to be a stone raft. The wizards appear like they are able to make everything fly. It reminds me of that Peter Pan film I watched decades ago. I was lost in thought and wonder, when suddenly, Gustave asked: "Hey, Platt, do you have anything else to talk about?"

"What's wrong?"

"You've been very quiet ever since you started driving, from the Weser River to where we are now. It's too quiet. I know it's odd for someone my age to say this, but, I'm, afraid of the silence."

"Afraid?"

"Picture yourself this way, Platt. One night, you run into a NAZI supply depot teeming with guards, and you have a squad of battle-hardened partisans. You give the command, and the massacre starts. There will be shooting, gutting, screaming, shouting, gasping, more shooting, and your blood races on. You split up to cover more ground. Building after building, murder after murder, blood flowing everywhere, and suddenly, it stopped. As quickly as it began, you find that you're done. And what remains of it all? Silence.

Oui, that's right, silence. You take a moment to pause amidst the scenery around you. Inside of that warehouse that was once a farmer's barn on that dark night. You recall what had happened just minutes earlier. From the roof, the slaughter began. Jumping in on a rope like a firefighter, you took the Tommy gun and shot the Krauts closest to the skylight. Three of them were playing cards, now scattered on the ground, with a bullet hole in the Ten of Diamonds and Five of Hearts. One was smoking his last cigarette, and now the tar poisons his blood in a more direct manner after you shot his neck. Next to that pool of blood? Another one dead. A snapped neck, fallen face first. He nearly got you, you know. You were reloading at that time. Across the barn, two bodies. Thirty-two shots fired in total, twenty-one hits, with four in the head. Seven lodged in the crates, giving the bread within them an extra dose of lead. Three went through the wooden planks that made up the barn. One struck the cable connected to the electric lamp hanging at the centre of the barn. It fell down, spreading glass shards over a minor area. Now the barn looks like a Baroque painting: light in one side and darkness on the other. Beneath that lamp, another death. A knife you threw killed a kid, aged 16 according to his diary. He had likely faked his age like some of the younger partisans in your team, searching for glory, yet death found him first. C...d pulled the knife out of his chest and worsened his bleeding, choked on his own blood as a result. He was shaking like a fish out of water in his final seconds. Just outside was the last one. He sounded the alarm to no avail, as your friends have cut the power. He tried to shoot back, but the rifle jammed so he charged instead. Again, to no avail. Poor Boche, I almost pity him. Almost. Screaming like a little girl as you stab him with knives in both hands. Eyes, arms, guts, and a gash at the neck. Entrails spilling out, eyeball on the hay, stomach acids slowly dissolving his uniform. And the stench, m...é, the stench, all that thick, viscous pools of blood and bile, you would have thought that it can be sniffed all the way in Berlin. But no. That's not what gets to your mind. It's the silence.

You see, Platt, it's not the noise, carnage, and mayhem that destroys your brain, it's the silence. Couldn't you imagine how much of a stark contrast it was? One minute ago you were fighting for your life, and in your heightened state of alertness, it stopped. Like when you are playing a record on a gramophone and the needle goes click. Then what do you do? You wait, you kneel, you reflect, and you begin to contemplate. I just killed some NAZI bastards! They were kids, but that doesn't matter, does it? Well, does it matter, Platt? To be honest, I had no real motive to kill them. I was just an informant wizard, taking a side in a muggle war. The France I fought for is not the France I live in. The Germany I fought against, doesn't even exist in the wizard world. How am I different from a bandit, a butcher, or a knave? Then, your conscience speaks out: "Gustave, Gustave, Pourquoi tes habits sont-ils rouges, et tes vêtements comme les vêtements de celui qui foule dans la cuve? Regarde, tout vêtement guerrier roulé dans le sang, Seront livrés aux flammes, Pour être dévorés par le feu." Slowly, you begin to crack a little, but you can't show any weakness. You need to get up and go, now, levez-vous, marchez, before the garrison knows what happened. So, you take some of their gasoline, douse some walls, and set the barn alight. You need to keep it all in, keep it as poison in your mind. A phantom to haunt your dreams for decades to come, even carried over to another world. Imagine the numerous moments of vivid silence you have to endure. Every raid, every assassination, every SS retaliation. Imagine all that piling up at the deepest corners of your mind. You know that it's there, coming back in the silence of the night, and over time, it chips away at your soul again. Like a leech feeding on blood that does not stop feeding until you are dry. For this is not a silence of tranquillity, but the silence of thought, which is the loudest silence of all. One that screams within your mind, telling you that it's wrong. This silence, I have learned to fear, and as I age, it gets even worse. I am now afraid to drive alone. This car that I bought, it has become a curse to me now. I can't sleep at night. Those faces of those kids, the soldiers, all that blood, I just want them to STOP!"

As I looked behind me, I saw that Gustave was crying, repeating the phrase "I want them to stop" over and over again in French and English. A textbook case of PTSD. I left him be for a moment, then when he had sufficiently vented out, I called his name.

"Monsieur Gustave?"

"Ah, where am I? You are, Platt? Oh, right, thank you for listening to me. That was, very unbecoming."

"My father went through the same problems, but he kept saying to me that we shouldn't run away. Instead, we are to acknowledge and confront them. That is what courage is called."

"That sounds like the Hector I knew. The one who ran through no man's land just to drag me to safety. He got an award for that. The Military Medal, if I'm not mistaken. You've inherited your father's kindness."

"Well, maybe that's why I became a doctor."

"Again, sorry for that unbecoming behaviour."

"I've seen worse. Far worse. You are mild in comparison. At least, you did not go mad and try to shoot me."

I stated that sentence so Gustave would feel less guilt. Indeed, Gustave was taken aback by that statement.

"Someone tried to shoot you?"

"Yes. He went mad because of the war. His shots missed because he was overwhelmed with emotion and twitched left and right, so I tackled and restrained him afterwards."

(He was also using a single-shot musket, so running to him mid-reload was easy.)

"My, I should have interviewed more medics when writing my book. Your stories sound nearly as interesting as front line action."

"Pray that I survive this war, and we'll meet again someday. I'll tell you my story then."

 **Berlin (Berlinum), Territorium von Berlin, Provincia Germania Magna III**

"Well, Platt, how should I put this? Welcome to NAZI-town."

Berlin was a modern-looking city like London. More exactly, Berlin looked like it was stuck in the NAZI era. The mapping period for the modernization was mostly from 1938 to 1939, ending weeks before the start of WW2.

"In 1937, a group of informant wizards managed to convince the city council to modernize everything. They claimed that a great war was looming over Europe, and that Berlin may be razed to the ground during that war. If that happened, they argued, then the city would not have another chance to modernize for at least another fifty years. Well, they were right, and thanks to them my memories would act up every single time I visit. How is Berlin in the muggle world?"

"It did end up razed, and then when it was rebuilt, it was divided in two: West Berlin and East Berlin. But, why did they stop modernizing in 1937?"

"Loans. They are still paying interest for the 1937 modernization to this day. Of course, since this is the fiftieth year, it should be their last payment. However, subsequent modernizations will take more time, money, and mapping, so they will likely not change the appearance of Berlin until 1992 at the fastest. Now, we should change, we're landing soon. Wait. The gun! Platt, just circle around town for a moment. I forgot to put away the cannon."

Upon closer inspection, like London, some parts of the city weren't modernized. A few medieval cathedrals still stand, and the buildings around them also remained medieval. There was also a merchant quarter near the river which appeared to be built during the 1800s, as well as the palace near it. However, there were swastika flags, EVERYWHERE, including within the medieval districts.

My dad and all his siblings may have an aneurysm seeing all this. It's as if the Germans won.

"Platt! Lower the pitch a little!"

I lowered the car's pitch with the lever, and felt the car pitch downwards. Then, I felt a shock from the back of the car raising its pitch, likely caused by the cannon. A few moments later, I handed over the wheel to Gustave, who landed the car on what appeared to be a government building like a helicopter. However, Enrique immediately objected.

"You aren't supposed to land here! We need to get Platt across the Spree!"

"Why? Is this government property?"

"No! I don't know why, but Martin had emphasized on the fact that you need to land on the south side of Berlin. He stated something about an American sector, and that you must not land on the wrong side of the city. Do you understand what he means?"

"Yes. Now may be a good time to explain. In the muggle world, Berlin is divided by a wall into the west and east regions, and no-one can get through that wall without permission from the army. And by army, I mean the generals. Anyone who as much as tries to scale the wall without their authorization will be killed immediately. To further complicate matters, the west and the east are controlled by different nations who are on the verge of war with each other. Unless if you are on good terms with both sides, you won't get to pass."

"What?! Not even the Pomerium in Rome retains rules that strict! I mean, we did, but those rules were abandoned centuries ago!" said Enrique.

"Different nations controlling Berlin? This is absurd! Who would want to maintain an exclave this far inland, where no cargo ships can dock?" said Gustave.

"Let's just say, Berlin carries a symbolic meaning. Enrique, you can ask any muggle above the age of sixty about it. They would know."

We flew again back to the sky with Enrique flying in front. Then, we slowly descended on a rooftop of a tenement which looked at least 100 years old. Enrique landed shortly after. He helped me carry all my belongings off from the car. As he was carrying the bags, he said:

"That look on your face… Muggle, I know you have doubts about this war, but right now, you must focus on your duty. Martin will be waiting for you tomorrow night. You must return to the muggle world now. I'll prepare the portal. Once through, you need to go to room 401. There, you should find a note containing further instructions."

"Platt, the violin case. Don't forget it."

"Wait, you're giving this to me?"

"You will need it more than I do. Trust me. It's war out there, Platt."

Enrique spoke something in Latin to Gustave, then he turned to the door and held a blue stone against it. The door then began glowing, and then it opened by its own, revealing a staircase downwards to a rundown tenement hallway.

"Beyond this door is the muggle world. And, I think I'll stay with you for the night. I'll be in room 402, just across yours."

"Why would you want to stay with me?"

"I'll be direct with you, Platt, I want to see Martin in person."

How famous is this Martin Smith? From what I can see, he seems to be about as famous as Michael Jackson or Madonna is to teens these days.

"Don't worry, Platt. I'll just view you from afar. Gustave, do you wish to follow?"

"What? Me? No. I'll just find an inn and return to France tomorrow night. My days of adventure are long gone, and I do not wish to be dragged into another war. Unless, of course, if this expedition is defeated, but that's very unlikely considering that the Sicilian is the one commanding this operation."

"The Sicilian?"

"You should ask more about him from Martin. He is a controversial figure within the high command whose rapid ascent to power and strong-arm approach has alerted many, but the rank and file consider him to be a Messiah of this war, like Joan of Arc. In fact, in this war, Martin answers to him only."

"I'll be sure to do so."

"Ah, don't spoil everything for this greenhorn outright. Let him grow like a little sprout, not too fast, and not too slow. We bid you adieu, Gustave," said Enrique.

Gustave replied with a simple nod, and drove away west to the direction of the moon.

"Well, muggle, shall we get going? Here's your keys." *sigh* "The muggle world. How many years has it been since I last visited this place? I should change into my muggle clothes before I go out."

…

I believe I should conclude my entry here. Drowsiness is starting to kick in so I'll write more about the tenement tomorrow. Whoever this Martin Smith is, I guess I'll just have to find out on my own.


	10. One Night in Kreuzberg

**Following an unsavoury incident in another fanfiction website that shall remain unnamed, I feel compelled to write this little disclaimer:**  
 **1\. As written in the prologue chapter, this work of fiction is written as a critique towards political systems and philosophical thought up to the 20th century, with fascism and Nazism being amongst the primary targets. To absolve myself from historical correctness in the name of political correctness, therefore, would be redundant and even inimical to the purpose of this work.**  
 **2\. For those of you who are too quick to judge, I will declare that I am a socialist moderate with sympathies towards anarcho-syndicalism. As such, I denounce Nazism and abhor fascism as they are contrary to my political beliefs.**  
 **3\. Martin Smith is not as loyal to the Third Reich as meets the eye. In future chapters you will see this play out.**  
 **4\. Old Chinese proverb:** 信言不美，美言不信。 **(Truthful words are not pleasant, Pleasant words are not trustworthy.)**  
 **5\. For now, I have toned down the story to be more acceptable by contemporary readers.**

 **6\. For admins of this site, delete this story if you wish to, but please give me a strong, valid, and logical reason for doing so. "Hate speech" is a very vague term that can easily be misused by figures of authority to silence dissent and nonconformist ideas. In my personal opinion, silencing all voices that disagree with us will lead to a gradual regression of society as a whole, to the detriment of the people living within it. Please remember that I will refuse to buckle to any identity groups expressing their dissatisfaction with the underlying thesis of my work.**

 **In short, I will not bow down to the draconian censorship laws as featured in Fahrenheit 451.**

 **With that, let us begin the next chapter.**

* * *

4 July 1987, 14:31

After writing last night's entry about the journey here, I found an alarm clock inside the end table beside my bed. I set it to ring at one in the afternoon, but it turns out I overslept by another half hour. When I woke up, I felt confused for a moment as I was used to the medieval surroundings of the Ayrshire base, then I looked out the window to observe my surroundings. It was a concrete jungle out there, with old buildings lining up beside the desolate street.

I still can't believe I'm in Berlin. I mean, I did plan to go on vacation here, but not under these circumstances. I don't even have a single Mark on me right now.

At the time of writing, Enrique is still asleep. Also, I had noticed that some food had been delivered some time earlier. It's amazing how the rats did not get it first. Judging from how cold it is, it was likely cooked sometime in the early morning. The food consisted of beans, sausages, and mashed potatoes, but neither was enjoyable when cold. Well, food is food, and at this time I'm so hungry I would settle for basically anything.

Looking back, I didn't eat anything much since I left Scotland. I only had some whiskey, the red potion Enrique gave me, some crackers and almonds from Gustave, and nothing else. I hadn't eaten a full meal at all for the past two days. Maybe that's why I've been feeling so lethargic.

It appears that the map I brought from Scotland no longer works here. It's completely blank now no matter how much I wave it around. Maybe it only works in the wizard world.

After I finished eating, I saw a letter beneath the plate. It was simply addressed to room 401. Upon opening it, I saw a hand drawn map of Central Berlin, highlighting the major landmarks and showing the way to get to Theodor-Wolff Park. On the opposite side, I saw the following text:

xx

Name: Irving Platt

Origin: (Address redacted), Merton Borough, London, UK

Transfer from: Command Base, Ayrshire Borderlands, Caledonia Valentia

Transfer to: Muggle Outpost XVI "Kreuzberg," Ost-Mittelmark, Germania Magna III

Requested by: Martin Smith, Vt.

Request date: 18 June 1987

Arrival deadline: Before 9 July 1987

Status: Arrived 4 July 1987

xx

18 June?! That was about a full week before I was brought to the wizard world. And, more importantly, how did this complete stranger know the full address of my house?! This is an invasion of privacy!

Is this Martin guy currently watching me as I'm writing this entry? And, why would he draw a map like this on the back of this, transfer note?"

I want to go outside and walk around, but without any money, I couldn't buy a city map. The map inside this letter is also crude and incomplete. I guess I'll just take a walk around the block and return here in an hour.

'

4 July 1987, 15:46

After taking a walk around the tenement, well, I'll just say this place looks pretty bleak. Rundown buildings left and right, protest signs, shattered windows, the Berlin Wall literally a short walk away, and everyone here just feels, cold. In London, we would often greet each other with a smile, but the people here act as if they want nothing to do with you. The streets are clean and tidy, but that just adds to the depression of this place. The grey skies aren't helping either, reminiscent of the foggy days in London. It's not much different than Tokyo, only worse. As Kojiro would put it, "You don't feel human here. You feel like you're just a small cog in a gigantic machine."

By now it has been nearly 15 years since I left Nagoya. I wonder how my old classmates are doing there. I remembered the time the professor won the Nobel Prize and we had lots of signs and banners flying to commemorate it. It's almost cruel to think that he died of leukaemia not long after. Sometimes I wonder, was that nuclear bomb necessary to begin with? Had he not been in Hiroshima back in 1945 maybe he would have had more time to change the world.

Maybe.

One day I'll return to Japan, just to see how much has changed. Preferably, before I get too old and start losing my memory of Kanji. It will be a complete pain to learn them all over.

Also, Enrique is still sleeping. When I took a peek into the keyhole, I saw that his room was still completely dark and his bags had not been moved since I left. He's literally sleeping like an infant: 12 hours a day and only awake in the night. It's unhealthy for someone his age. How the bloody hell did he even get through boot camp and rose up the ranks to become a centurion? Then again, Gustave did say he was specially trained. Maybe he's already awake, but meditating.

'

4 July 1987, 17:35

Dinner just arrived on the front door, delivered by an old lady. She also delivered some food for Enrique, but at that time Enrique was still asleep so she just left the tray in front of the door. Our foods are noticeably different. Mine was mashed potatoes, sausages, and beans, while Enrique was given some kind of reddish stew which smells very metallic, like rusted iron. Maybe it's loaded with wizard ingredients. I want to taste some, as I know that the smell generally does not represent the taste, but I guess I should wait until he wakes up.

'

4 July 1987, 23:27 - GMT+1

Darn, that Martin Smith. I can see where he got his reputation. This guy is just impossible, in every sense of the word. And to think that he wasn't lying about that NAZI captain uniform. It takes serious guts to wear something like that even if you're not in Berlin.

Also, despite his name, he wasn't English at all. He was Prussian. This guy is an actual NAZI captain, fighting in the forefront with a Panzer division. Let's hope time has peeled of most of his genocidal tendencies.

I'll start this entry at slightly past 7 PM London time, which is around the time I finished dinner and when Enrique woke up. I made a remark about how he slept like an infant, and he replied that he couldn't sleep that night as it was too cold and the blanket made him itch, which is quite an odd remark considering that were in the middle of summer. He gave me some of the soup, which tasted like black pudding but with a hint of lime and potatoes. It tasted odd and not as delicious as I had hoped. As I initially thought there was still some time left, I decided to wait in my room and started humming Elton John's Nikita, until I reached "…of every hidden line in time…" and recalled that Berlin was one hour ahead of London.

I immediately changed and told Enrique to follow suit. By the time I left, it was already 08:43, and Theodor-Wolff Park was a good distance away. I ran at a military pace, initially leaving Enrique by a fair margin before he caught up and started running beside me. He was wearing a black Far Side of the Moon T-shirt, brown cargo pants, a pair of mitten-socks, and a pair of Roman sandals which would be displayed in a museum if it were found in the muggle world. It was a completely mismatched set. We ran by the Wall, headed east to the Spree, and finally southward to the park which was actually still under construction. Even so, Martin was immediately noticeable.

Martin was standing beneath a lamppost beside a tree, atop a promenade beside the enclosed construction site near a six-storey building with a half-arch roof. He was wearing the full uniform: Black hat, dark green clothes, Swastika arm band, military boots, and grey trench coat, similar to the ones in old WW2 films which the Americans are so fond of. They all appear weathered and slightly damaged at the edges, but otherwise clean. Martin's facial features are equally rough. He had quite a large forehead, for starters. He had blue eyes, an attached earlobe, and a slightly oval-rectangular chin. He was slightly taller than I am, standing at nearly 180 cm by the looks of it. Added by the boots, it looks as though he was over 180. His face isn't that wrinkled, his stare was sharp and cold, and he kept an upright posture throughout the conversation, which led me to think that he was perhaps around 60 years old at first. He kept a pair of glasses in one of his trench coat pockets. Near his feet was a glass beer bottle, unlabelled and filled slightly over half full. I would not have noticed it if it weren't for what was to come after.

At that time, Enrique decided to sit a good distance away, watching us from across the park. I cautiously approached him at first, calling out his name.

"Martin Smith, I presume? I'm sorry to have kept you waiting."

"..."

Martin just stood still like a statue.

"Do you have any further orders?"

"..."

"Is something wrong?"

"..."

"Are you Martin Smith? The one who asked for my arrival here?"

"..."

"Hello..."

"..."

"Can you speak even English?"

"..."

At the time I began to doubt if this was the correct person.

"Can you hear what I just said?"

"..."

"It's me, Irving Platt. Did you not ask for me?"

"..."

"I'm trying to talk to you!"

"..."

"Bloody hell, say something!"

"..."

"If you have nothing to say, I'll take my leave!"

"..."

I then took the letter I found under the food tray and showed its contents and the map to him, as well as the letter in the mini-safe I got in Scotland.

"Is this yours?"

"..."

*sigh* "We're wasting time here. What are you up to?"

"..."

"I have followed your instructions to the letter. Why won't you answer?"

"..."

"I grow tired of your act. Will you speak up already?"

"..."

I then took his wrist and checked for a pulse. Surprisingly, he had one.

"Are you drunk? Sedated? Did you drink a paralysis potion?"

"..."

"What do you truly want?!"

"..."

"This is useless. Last chance, old man. Talk or at least do something or I'm going!"

"..."

That was when I lost my patience. I left Martin and headed to where Enrique was, and told him that we may have had the wrong person. Enrique, however, disagreed, saying that it was Martin, and he was likely testing my patience. He urged me to return to the lamppost, which I immediately did. But, when I returned, he was gone.

"Now where did he go?"

Then, I saw a glint from the tree nearby. As I looked to that direction, I saw that Martin was standing behind the tree, holding a knife.

"Doctor Irving Platt?"

Anyone who saw Martin would think that his face looked rather scary. His voice did not help at all. He spoke in a deep baritone pitch, perhaps bordering on bass, with a slight rasp typical of people his age. It nearly made me jump.

"Yes, that's me. What do you need of me?"

"Seven minutes."

"What?"

"The length of your patience is seven minutes. Decently above average, but in truth, I expected more from a doctor. A British doctor, to add. Now, what I find stranger is your lack of punctuality. You came four minutes late, while regular Englishmen are known to come ten to fifteen minutes early." *sigh* "They sure don't make gentlemen like they used to. Tell me, what held you back?"

"I forgot to set my watch to German time."

"Careless and lackadaisical, no different than a civilian. I thought your time in the army had changed that."

"I was never in any army! I worked for the Red Cross!"

"What?! I asked for battle-ready soldiers! What I got was you!"

"Well I apologize for my ineptitude, you condescending old bloke!"

Martin then leapt out of the shadows and walked in a circle around me, observing carefully like an art critic examining a sculpture. It was mildly unsettling, but I remained calm and kept a stoic face. Then he stared at the lamppost for a moment, breathed a sigh, and said, "Well, maybe I'll just ask for a medic from another squad. You should return home to England now."

"Are you serious?! I just got here! Do you even have the time to find a replacement?"

Martin then turned around and said, "Is that so? You do not miss your family one bit? Your life's the one at stake here, not some poker chips."

"The same goes for all the soldiers in this war. Everyone wants to return home safely, and that is why I am willing to help!"

[Pointing fingers] "You couldn't even be punctual! How am I supposed to acknowledge your skills?"

"It was a slight mistake…"

[Stamps boot] "No! No mistake is slight! This is an oversight that would be fatal if you are operating on someone! Frankly, I don't trust you, Platt. Give me a reason why I should."

"I came here. Even though…"

"Stop! I've heard enough. You're making things up. It's evident in your body language. This only serves to strengthen my views that you are too inept. Did you bribe your way through university?"

"I did no such thing!"

"Regardless, you're useless to me and would only serve as a dead weight. Run back to that little cesspool you call home, child, and let the adults do the work."

"Cesspool?!"

"Ah, did I offend you?"

"Oh, not at all. That's very kind of you. How was 1945, you old s...?!"

"Enough of this talk. Please, be gone from my presence."

"Listen here..."

As I walked up to Martin, I noticed that he had took out a gun. Immediately, I stopped in my tracks.

"You know too much already and I couldn't rely on wizards to remove your memory. I best dispose of trash here and now rather than risk any loose ends. I'm sorry."

BANG!

The first bullet missed my leg by a close margin, striking the beer bottle on the pavement behind me and causing the fluid to spill out. At that point, my fear overcame rage. I reversed course and tried to run away, but before I got too far…

BANG!

At first, I didn't notice anything, but I then saw that I was bleeding in the chest area, likely between the diaphragm and the pleura. Gradually, it became harder for me to breathe, and I had to lean on the walls of a nearby building. Oddly enough, Martin then moved forward, forced me to drink a vial of red fluid, took a glass shard from the broken beer bottle, and used it to extract the bullet. During that time, the pain slowly subsided.

"Sorry, I didn't mean that. Are you alright, doctor?"

*coughs blood* "What is wrong with you?!"

"Stand up, please. They will arrive soon and you need to escape."

"What was all that for? And, who do you mean by "they"?"

"First, I apologize for any harsh words that may have offended you. I had intended to only give you a scare earlier, and to test your determination and commitment to the cause. My name is Marthen Kyrzynscki from Danzig, captain in the IV Panzer Corps, and I'll be your commander through the mission. Forget about going home. I am pleased to see that you made it here alive, Platt.

"Wasn't your name…"

"Martin Smith? I'll tell you more tomorrow. Has the gunshot wound recovered?"

"Recovered?"

Martin opened my shirt, and to my surprise, the wound appeared to be in the later stages of recovery. However, Martin also noticed the scar on my chest.

"My, what have we here? A gash? This was evidently caused by a sword. Likely a thin blade, like a rapier or falchion. Where did you get into a swordfight?"

"It's, a long story."

"Let me guess. Did it happen in Japan?"

"Yes, I, wait. How did you know that?!"

"I know many things about you, Platt, like the years you spent in Japan to study medical science. In this ever more interconnected and computerized world, it will only get harder to keep your privacy. I have some assumptions on how it got there, but we should talk another time. Now stand up, Platt, and stay back if you will. Hold your ear against the wall. Can you hear that? Those footsteps? Those who are after me have arrived. Climb up that tree and hide, Platt. I'll act as a diversion. When the coast is clear, get back to your tenement. You were a Boy Scout. I'm sure you can do it."

Immediately, I climbed up the tree and observed Martin slowly walk away towards the intersection. Surely enough, six police constables came and immediately noticed him. They ran towards him, pointed guns, tore off his arm band, forced him to lie flat on the pavement, and interrogated him with a lot of questions and shouting. After a few minutes of talking, he was then told to lie down on the street and handcuffed. But, as he was lying down, he immediately kicked the policeman trying to handcuff him and ran to the broken beer bottle. There, he threw what appeared to be an aspirin pill into the puddle, and suddenly, I saw a bright white light burning like a welder's flame which lasted for about 30 seconds.

Whatever was inside that bottle was likely not beer.

By the time the light had subsided, two of the officers were out cold on the pavement, with one of them bleeding from the nose and mouth as if he had been punched with a heavy hook. A third policeman looked dazed and had to lean against the wall, rubbing his eyes. He was closest to the beer bottle when Martin tried to escape. Martin, however, had disappeared. The other three still in active condition then pointed to Enrique across the park, who promptly ran away. Two of the officers immediately ran after him, while the remaining one appeared to be calling for backup.

Enrique: "That was NOT funny, Platt! Stop smiling! Dammit, that bald bastard! It is true of what they say in the guilds. Wherever he goes, trouble will follow.

…I have never been humiliated like so. A First Centurion of gens Terentius, in the Home Army, to add, running away from muggles carrying sticks! This is a stain on my family name and my military record!"

The two unconscious officers were carried away from the scene by those still conscious. Seeing a chance, I jumped down from the tree and tried to act natural. When the policeman saw me and asked for details, I told them that I was an Englishman visiting a friend in Berlin, and showed him my papers. I then said I did see a white flash and came out to see what it was. Remarkably, he bought it, and I managed to return to the tenement without any further incident.

Midway to the tenement, I found that Martin had slipped a note into the pocket of my jeans. He must have done it when I was on bleeding on the pavement. Martin must have thought of everything multiple steps ahead to do something like that. I've slid the note into my journal book, as usual.

* * *

Greetings again, Platt.

If you are reading this letter, that means our little chat has been rudely interrupted by the authorities. Perhaps a policeman was passing by and saw my uniform, or I had likely did something to attract their attention. Regardless, by the time you notice this letter, you should be back at your room in Kreuzberg. Now, don't worry about me. These inexperienced kids have never tasted war before, and so they can be easily deceived. By the time you're reading this, the police would likely have called off the search after failing to find me throughout the night.

This is what you should do next. On the back of this letter is a map which will point you to a small house near Checkpoint Charlie in the Berlin Wall. I'll be waiting for you there, across the street, inside a black car which will very likely stand out from the rest. This time, I won't be in uniform. I couldn't risk another confrontation with the authorities. I will be wearing a brown hat, noticeable from afar. We'll be leaving at 8 AM, but if you come one hour early we can have breakfast at a nearby building together.

Here is what we will do next. The rest of our squad has been scattered across Germany, both West and East. If everyone survives the trip, there should be twelve of us counting you and me. I intend to pick them all up, and head to my safe house where we will discuss why you were all brought here. It shall be a very long and tiring trip, and possibly perilous, so you better get enough rest. I'll be waiting at the circled location at the map behind.

p.s. In the extremely unlikely chance that I do not show up tomorrow, wait for me until 9 AM. If I still do not show up, return to your tenement and visit room 208. There should be a short old lady residing inside. Say "The falcon is inside the fortress" in English to her. She will tell you what to do next.

* * *

Behind this letter is a cut city map with the location of the tenement and the site circled with a small marker pen. It appears to be a 20-minute walk from here.

When I returned back to my room, the gunshot would had completely healed. Without a scar, to add. I hope this doesn't shorten my lifespan, as recent research shows that cells can only split for a limited amount of times before dying.

When I was writing this entry, Enrique knocked on the door.

"Come in."

"I don't intend to. I'm just telling you that I'm going home."

"Why?"

"I did my job and got you here safely. I also got to see how Martin looks like. However, it took me a while to get back here after being chased by the city guards. Muggle Berlin still shares a lot of streets as wizard Berlin, but where did that big wall come from? I ran to the east and north, only to find a long wall with guard posts everywhere."

"It's a very long story."

"Right, it must be the international muggle issue you told me yesterday."

"So you're going back to Spain?"

"No, Cardiff. I am currently there to help the British with the Ireland problem. I'll return back to Spain in two months."

"Very well. Take care now."

"I should be the one saying that to you, Platt. You are the one in greater peril than I am. I'll be taking my leave now. Farewell, Platt."

"Farewell."

I'm in greater peril? Why did he say that? He's the army man. I'm a medic whose job is to hang out at a medical post far away from the action.

Also, Martin now owes me a new T-shirt. Had I known that I would get shot, I would have borrowed Enrique's clothes. Now where can I get some peroxide?

'

5 July 1987, 07:33

"Well, now you're early."

I came to the location Martin circled just after sunrise, arriving at 6:30 AM. It was within a block filled with old houses. And by old, I meant Victorian-era old. This is one of the rare cases where the wizard world is more modern than the muggle world. The paint had mostly peeled off exposing multiple layers underneath, the stones are crumbling, and mould was growing everywhere. Martin was standing beside his car, wearing a more casual outfit, a backpack, and a brown hat, under a somewhat rundown house. It had three floors and seemed to be privately owned. Vines were growing on the walls, the bushes were left unattended, and all of the windows have been boarded up. It would look nice if it weren't so rundown.

On the other hand, Martin's car looked futuristic. It looked like a crossover between the Mystery Machine from Scooby-Doo and the Batmobile from the Batman films. For starters, instead of a normal box-shaped body, it was curved like that of a race car. It was long and sleek, similar to a limousine but not as long, with a shiny black metallic colour. It can fit seven people inside with lots of space remaining thanks to its height. The rims were noticeably white, with very little dirt on them as if they were recently washed. As I was loading my belongings into the baggage compartment, I can see that it had a false bottom with warped space, making it nearly as big as a large-sized kiddie pool for eight. Martin keeps a lot of guns down here.

"A violin case? I didn't know you like to play music too, Platt."

"You'll see later on. Now where do we go?"

"We climb up to the roof now."

Martin took a length of rope from the baggage compartment with a hook on its end. He threw it to the roof, where it latched on to something. Then, he began to climb and instructed me to do the same.

"Wait, isn't this trespassing?"

"Platt, this is Kreuzberg! Home to the outcast society of Berlin. Immigrants, cheapskates, 'liberal' college students, 'socialist' college students, outsiders, gang members, political dissidents, gays and lesbians, Soviet spies, and crooks of all kinds from your average pickpocket to left-wing or right-wing terrorists. Basically, every demographic with little, if any, regard for the law. Unless if you kill someone, you're alright doing just about anything. Kreuzberg, is like, the San Francisco of Germany, minus all the things that actually make San Francisco good, no offence to your childhood home intended. I've had my share of robberies here, though, usually my assailants are the ones who ended up bloody."

Reluctantly, I followed Martin up the rope. To my surprise, on the rooftop was a wooden table and two folding chairs under a beach umbrella which reminds me of early 1960s San Francisco during the surf craze.

"Did you set this up?"

"Yes, a few decades ago."

"But, why here of all places?"

"You see, Platt, this was our old safe house. Usually, after a mission, I would kick back and rest up here."

"Why did you abandon it?"

"We never wanted to! It was raided by the military police in 1985. They thought we were Soviet spies. We managed to hold them off long enough to trigger the self-destruct mechanism, but at a heavy cost."

Martin pulled out three cans of food and placed it on the table, along with a bottle filled with tea.

"This can's for you, Platt. Here's the bread."

Martin then pulled out a loaf of bread from his backpack.

"This bag reminds me of the days when I was still an active mountain climber and engineer. That was before I worked with the wizards."

"When did you meet the wizards?"

"Thirty years ago, but that's a long story, so I'll tell you more when we have more time."

Martin helped me pour the beans on the bread and I started eating, while he opened his bottle and sat down on the chairs. He remained still like a statue, staring north. After eating two slices, I decided to take a look at the surrounding sceneries. On the south was the Landwehr canal, and on the north I can see the Berlin Wall and the no man's land normally invisible on street level.

"Long wall isn't it, Platt?"

"Feels like a giant prison. You said you had a car. How do you intend to drive out?"

"You'll see. But, just asking, Platt, how do you see it?"

"The wall? You mean, as a symbol? Well, I see the wall as a sign of communist oppression. A very literal display of the Iron Curtain."

"Listen, Platt, just because Ronald Reagan delivered his speech here a few weeks back doesn't mean you need to tether your opinion to him."

"Then what do you see it as?"

"Cowardice."

"A bold accusation."

Martin took a sip from his drink, stared to the wall outside, and said, "Bold? Are you blind, Platt? Alright. Think of it this way. It was a dark and stormy night, and your kids are afraid of the thunder. What would they most likely do if they are in their bedrooms?"

"They would take the pillow and cover their head."

"Now, take it like this. The times are changing, and the East is afraid of capitalism. What would they do if they are beside the easternmost outpost of NATO?"

"Hmm, that's a good point."

"Ah, but it isn't just cowardice on behalf of the Soviets that I am referring to, but to the global tyrants in general. That of the United Nations."

"The UN are tyrants? Hey, don't push your German domination fantasies to me."

"I have done nothing of that sort, Platt. Just hear me on this."

Martin took another sip from his drink.

"Power corrupts, Platt, and the power to intervene in the policies of many nations with a single veto is something to be concerned of. Such power is easy to abuse. I fear that they may use it to hinder the advancement of other nations or those who want to exercise their rights as a state. The Big Five, NATO, and the Warsaw Pact may not see it as such, but the Third World does. Case in point: Indonesia, which at one point withdrew from the UN."

Martin is definitely on a similar position on the political spectrum as Kojiro.

"So you are supporting national populism?"

"I've seen how national populism failed spectacularly. That is not my goal. I currently seek to rewrite the rules of the UN."

"Why is that?"

"What if, say, in fifty years or so, India or Brazil or any third world country becomes more advanced than all the countries in the west? What if, for instance, Russia suffers from another civil war which sets it back decades behind the West? What if Scotland declares independence from England, and the Pound falls sharply against the Dollar? Or, I pray this doesn't happen, but what if American democracy regresses and America slowly slides into populism and oligarchy, taking the world down with it? The UN did not anticipate this. They assume the Cold War will go on forever, and that's where they're wrong."

"But, aren't they working towards world peace?"

Martin laughed, and took another sip from his drink. Then, he said, "Platt, you innocent child. That's like saying the Crusades were solely fought on the basis of religion. The truth is much more complicated. Think about it. The US and USSR have been vetoing each other over issues that may harm NATO or the Warsaw Pact, but nobody is out there to stand up for the Non Aligned Movement. For them, it's all fair game. A form of neo-imperialism based on influence. Wars fought there are pretty much neglected, especially if they are fought between non-aligned countries. You, of all people, would know them very well. I swear, there will come a point where a literal genocide happens right under their noses and they will just let it slide. Maybe saying "I'm sorry!" like a little kid who broke a vase just for publicity's sake." *sigh* "If sorry was enough, we wouldn't need any prisons."

Martin took another sip from his drink.

"But don't they want to determine their own path?"

"So did we, Platt, so did we. But, we can't let that happen, now can we? It may start World War Three. So, for the sake of global security, we will place a puppet leader and maybe tear your country in two for good measure. *psst* by the way, make sure to support us in any war we may fight in, alright? We good, they bad. Here's some money. Buy some weapons, raise an army again, but don't let the world know. I tell you where to fight and die, but all credit goes to me. And, if you refuse, we will launch an intervention against your cabinet in the name of the 'people,' if you know what I mean. Short version? WORLD PEACE MY FOOT! The UN is nothing more than a means. There is only one true objective which they are after: power."

"We're not like that!"

"Typical civilians and their short foresight. Listen, Platt, I've worked as a spy and commando with the wizards for decades, and as an officer for decades more. It's a cutthroat underworld, sometimes quite literally. International politics is also like that. Wear a smile! Be polite! Be courteous! But, always have a plan to kill everyone you meet. As dirty as it is, politics is a science, Platt. A science where you can demonstrate that you are right and others are wrong, by any means necessary."

Martin continued sipping his drink.

"You're, you're just biased because of all that NAZI education you had!"

"The same can be said about you, Platt, with all that American education you had. Nobody's a true neutral, not even the Non-Aligned Movement."

"Even so, you expect me to tolerate all that?"

"I never asked for tolerance. I merely asked you to listen and decide for yourself. Kids these days like to pull off a hasty conclusion with little to no afterthought. It's bad for the future of the political world, you know."

"I have worked in the Red Cross for years and I can assure you that the UN is working for the common good! We have vaccination programs all across Africa to eradicate disease now!"

"I am not, and never was, blaming you! I am blaming the top brass who are using you as mere tools, without you or the general public noticing. The Security Council needs to be shaken up, else it becomes a catalyst for war. No, not a catalyst. Disease vector may be a term that you're more familiar with. What may be seen as a stopgap measure in 1945 to prevent World War Three is nothing more than a stopgap, like a duct tape patch on a leaking pipe. Remember my words, Platt. They will not bring peace. They will only bring a truce of seventy-five years!"

"I likely will not even live that long!"

"But your grandchildren will, and it's your job as a parent to protect them, right? You roam the corners of the Earth, to save sons of many fathers, and yet you do not care for yours? I find it absurd. Listen, Platt. I read into your history, and I am impressed at your career. You've been in-and-out of war since Ethiopia in 1975, fresh graduate. Then you've seen action in Rhodesia, West Sahara, Lebanon 1981, the Falklands, Iraq, Lebanon 1985, and finally the Libya-Chad border up until a few months ago. Don't you ever get tired of your job?"

"Never! Lives are always at stake here, and if not us, then who else will stand up for those caught in the middle?"

"You're only treating the symptoms, Platt, not the illness itself. I can see this much from the way you talk: You're tired of all this senseless killing. Tired of all this hatred. You want it all to end. You've seen what war does. A broken limb here, some shrapnel there, some lead where you don't want them to be, a few had injuries so severe that you think they would benefit more from a mercy killing. Is that correct?"

Martin put down his bottle, and walked towards me near the edge. At that time, I was still eating some bread. He was carrying a small wooden box about the size of a pencil case. Inside were four swastika arm bands, but not of NAZI origin. They appear to be made by the wizards using medieval patterns. They come in different colour patterns, but all appear to be hand-woven. One of them was partially charred, and another had visible dried-up bloodstains.

"There are no ideological NAZIs in the wizard world save for some splinter groups such as the British death eaters, and even then they have their own symbols. As such, the swastika there has always stood for peace, as it always should. These used to belong to my friends, who were killed during the 1985 raid. We fought for a greater peace, both in the muggle world and in the wizard world. Eternal peace may not last, but we can at least postpone the next big war long enough for a more permanent solution to be implemented. Even if there is a war, we will ensure it ends as swiftly as possible."

"Then why did you use the NAZI one?"

"So that I may never forget who I was, and the day I decided to turn back on all of it. Also, blood must be atoned for in blood, so the red serves a double purpose."

"Turn back?"

"Again, it's a long story, but let's just say that there's a strong reason of why I spent the final months of the war in a concentration camp."

"That's actually pretty interesting after you explain it. I just can't believe your stunt yesterday."

"I respect orders but I respect myself too and I do not obey foolish rules meant to humiliate me. But, I believe you can consider it as an act of defiance. Though, posturing and symbolism can only get me so far. For my next act, I will tear down the Berlin Wall, literally."

I laughed at that remark, and said, "Wow, I didn't expect you to have a sense of humour. That was actually a good one. What do you plan to bring? A Tiger Tank?"

*chuckles* "Not quite, Platt. You will see in time. Ideas can carry the strength of a thousand guns."

At that time, Martin took off his hat, and I noticed that he was completely bald.

"You look surprised, Platt. I believe you now know the reason of why I like to wear hats."

"Can't you just wear a wig?"

"They itch. Anyway, hold this for me."

Martin pulled out a note from his hat, which I read and placed into my journal.

* * *

Abteilung Europa XXII

Irving Platt - Berlin

Mathieu Thériault - Postdam

Pedro Ansorena - Brandenburg

Lennart Wisselgren - Magdeburg

(Anna) - Leipzig

Andreas Radomin - Jena

Astolfo Canelas - Erfurt

Shannon Mulkerrin - Bad Hersfeld

Stefan Koster - Giessen

Abraham van Herrikhuyzen - Frankfurt

Jacopo Grimaldi - Mainz

* * *

"A select group of volunteers from all across Europe, sent to fight to Russia. Reminds me of the Waffen-SS."

"You better not order us to commit any war crimes whatsoever, and mind you, I will not hesitate to shoot you if you try anything strange."

"War crimes? Tell that to Alex, not me. I'm just following orders. Don't worry. He's a good man at heart. Treats his prisoners well and uses them to be exchanged for our POWs." Even if he suddenly turns insane and genocidal, I'll be the first to lead a strike force to kill him.

"Who is Alex?"

"My commander. Alessandro Pietro di Bari. Speaking of commander, from here on out, just address me as commander. It will make things more convenient for the both of us."

"Yes, commander."

"Do you have any questions?"

"How many units are there?"

"Only seven, to be honest. That is, assuming that the XXIV Europa doesn't mobilize this year. Also, we added an XX to make it look like there are a lot of squads. We're actually just unit number two."

"Why is Anna's name in brackets?"

"That's not her real name. She was in the KGB and so she had to keep her real name a secret."

Great. In addition to a NAZI captain, I now have to work with a KGB agent. If MI5 finds out, I am going to lose my citizenship for sure.

"Is this Alessandro also known as the Sicilian?"

"Of course not! Bari isn't in Sicily! The Sicilian is his superior."

"Then can you tell me more about the Sicilian, and maybe the Grand Marshal too? I've heard those names repeatedly mentioned during my time in Scotland."

"That will be another very long story. I'll tell you when we get to my safe house. But, I'll tell you this much: The Grand Marshal and the Sicilian refer to the same person. His name is Alfonso Vali."

"Wait, so Berlin isn't our HQ?"

"Of course not! There are too many foes in this city, both wizard and muggle. It's safer if you're far away."

"So where is your safe house?"

"By the Rhine, near Frankfurt."

"That's...in West Germany."

"West Germany? Ah, that reminds me too, Platt. Buy some world atlas books. In fact, hoard as many titles as you possibly can. In ten years, a lot is going to change in Europe, and if I may be so brave I'm pretty certain that Germany will be reunified in less than one year after the Berlin Wall falls. In fifty years, your atlases will become prized items for collectors."

"You're too optimistic! There's no guarantee that the Berlin Wall will fall within your lifetime, or even mine!"

"Platt, do you have Dutch ancestors? You seem to be so blatant and straight about everything. No matter. Just you wait, Platt, just you wait. Can you feel it in the air? In the great Aether of Ages? The winds of change are beginning to blow."

"No offense intended, but, how old are you?"

"79 this year."

"What?! I thought you were 60 at most!"

That really took me by surprise. In fact, if Martin was wearing a UN officer uniform, I would've thought he was 50-something.

"Oh? Thanks for the compliment. Pedro's never been that nice compared to you. Have you got all your bags in the car?"

"Yes."

"I am quite intrigued by that violin case you brought. In my thirty years of working with the wizards, I have seldom seen another muggle operative carry a musical instrument with them. In fact, you are the first violinist. Others normally bring a guitar or harmonica, and on one occasion, an accordion, but I guess it's your preference. Personally, I like to play the piano. Maybe I can arrange a duet if you like. Should we play pieces from Camille Saint-Saëns? Or would you prefer Fritz Kreisler?"

"Well..."

"Nevermind that. We'll be going now to Potsdam, where Mathieu is. From the background information I've gathered, he won't like me at all, but that doesn't matter. Come, Platt. I'll hold the rope and you slide down first, then you'll be on watch for me, like the Boy Scouts did. Let's go."


End file.
